Andy is covered with spots. The only thing we've done all week is entertain families who want to expose their kids to chicken pox.

I decide we have to bond somehow, because if we can't enjoy being with each other during vacation, then there's nothing in the relationship to look forward to.

I rent a movie, which astounds Andy because I don't have the attention span for movies. Andy's seen everything from the last thirty-five years because he's lived in L.A. his whole life, so I rent a Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy movie. We settle into bed, and I curl up next to him, even though some of his pox are still full of puss. The movie is about Spencer Tracy's boring fiancee and his love for exciting Katherine Hepburn, which is the same as their real lives, so it bores me. I want to make out instead of watching, but Andy says he needs to get more scabs -- he says contact hurts his open sores.

"Then we have to think of something else to do together," I say. "Time is ticking." We decide to try talking to people on the Internet. We access Andy's e-world account, which we don't really know how to use. We get ourselves into a room, but the conversations are going too quickly to figure out what they're about. Someone types, "Hi, Andy," because that's Andy's log-in name. I type back, "Hi," but I have nothing else to say. No one says anything to me. I am figuring out that you have to have a catchy name, because Lois Lane, Dr. Cool and Gigit are all immersed in conversation.

I tell Andy he has to switch his name so people will talk to me. Andy tries, but it's too much work. So I go to the sex room as Andy, and it's full of men, and someone types in that they don't need any more men. I type back "I'm not Andy, I'm a woman," and the people in the room ignore me, and Andy is itching, so we turn off the computer and go to sleep.