The weather report was full of breathless almost-promises of snow, but alas, there’s nary a flake to be found. Which is good, really–everyone goes goddamn crazy around here whenever the weather changes at all. Sunny day after a string of rain? Crazed driving. The first real rain after summer parching? Crazy driving. A single snowflake reported by Aunt Betty’s cousin’s friend? SUPER CRAZED DRIVING. So I don’t exactly wish for snow, but it would have been nice to have school canceled and everyone home for the day. There could have been baked goods and hot cocoa.
I mean, there still could be, really. Especially since I just looked out the window and there’s some kind of wintry mix thing happening.
I spent the weekend in a fog of cold meds and physical misery. I’m still not feeling tiptop. I haven’t been on a run for almost a week now, but I don’t feel jumpy or twitchy, which means…yeah, still sick. A box and a half of tissues and a whole lot of Mucinex later, I ended up losing my voice. Upon reflection, I probably should have just stayed in bed for a day or so, but that’s not an option.
So today I’m going to bundle up, make a metric tonne of hot tea–probably use up a lot of lemon verbena, since the Selkie gave me a full tin of it–and try not to cough my lungs out. Fortunately I’m not feeling half-dead, just quarter-dead and congested, and if I have to I can summon up a raspy croak of a voice that could star in a horror movie. (“They call me…THE LARYNX.”) Another bright spot: my hair is long enough, finally, that my nape is kept warm on cold days. Except right after my shower. I don’t care what happens, I am NEVER shaving my head again.
Even Miss B seems to have caught the spirit of the day. She’s curled up next to the heater in my office instead of nosing me to get me out the door to run off some of her energy. She’s been worried, since I’ve been hacking and coughing and croaking. There’s nothing quite like an Australian shepherd insisting on shoving her nose in your face to sniff your breath and your runny nose before informing you with a head tilt and raised fuzzy eyebrows that you’re sick and she plans on herding you to the couch and keeping you there. Odd Trundles, of course, is nesting amid the pillows on my bed, cuddling with a teddy bear.
What? No, it’s not his teddy bear. It’s mine, and no, there’s no picture, he’s paparazzi-shy. I’m just hoping Odd doesn’t take it into his head to eat said comfortable, comforting, plushie toy.
Just glanced out the office window again. Still no snow. Just a pile of work ahead of me on Afterwar, and not enough tissues to last the day.
Over and out.