I sent the following e-mail to the Palinode today:
I'm all dying over here. I just loaded up on Nyquil. Need more.You just know that your day is not starting out well when the pain in your head has you dry-heaving over the toilet, and your cat, who you wish would finish being in heat already so you could go get her fixed, pees on one of the sofas in a fit of sexiness, and you realize you only have two Nyquil to last you the day, and then you run out of chocolate Cheerios.
I'm wearing woolly socks and convalescing on the sofa. The non-peed on sofa.
If I could find my crochet hooks, Lula'd be uterus-less by now.
This is how one finds oneself threatening one's cat's uterus with lost crochet hooks at ten in the morning and suffering from a monstrous headache just barely downsized from ginormous by a judiciously doled out and nearly gone supply of pharmaceuticals.
Just before I fell into an anxious sleep riddled with dreams of ugly design failures, I managed to cobble together four circles to create a splash page for myself, which has only taken me eight years to get together.
And now my be-socked feet and I are going to retreat back into our delightful haze of Nyquil and episodes of Thirtysomething on Netflix.
PS. No crochet hooks will be used to extract any uteri in this household. I'm not good with gore. PETA can relax now.
PPS. Thankfully, the Palinode's ordering out for food, because I can no longer fend for myself. I languished on the couch for an hour this afternoon thinking how wonderful it would be to eat toast, because I could smell toast, and it smelled delicious. Oh, if only I could have toast. It turned out that I had actually put bread in the toaster and then forgotten about it.