I'm certain that all of my followers have tuned in this morning to hear my phlegmatic updates on the state of my health. Thankfully, my cold seems to have tacked a gentle course and I recovered enough to go to work yesterday. Other contributing factors have conspired to make a muscle in my neck and shoulders be spasmodic and twinge-y and then I pulled a back muscle while twistin' and liftin' (not recommended) a bucket of horse slops... Not having a good week, physical being-wise!
Yesterday while gathered around the communal luncheon table at work, I expressed the idea that I believe being ill- whether with some major affliction like consumption or pleurisy or some temporary malaise such as my cold- should make one more beautiful. 'Cause you know how that goes: you wake up (wishing you hadn't) and then you look in the mirror and your skin is grey and there are bags the size of a Texas airport beneath your eyes and then you really feel ill! (How's that for mixing metaphors; I really must still be sick!) And why, I asked my worker colleagues, does entertaining a cold make you stupid? I haven't felt especially sharp, barely up to the task of blogging.
On an entirely different note, there was an incident- as yet un-elaborated- at the end of our driveway last night. As I progressed up the road on my way home from work, I couldn't help but notice flashing lights and many cars- police and otherwise. Our driveway was partially blocked by a Southbury cruiser so I initially had images of Bob being hauled away to the hoosegau for art theft or home appliance murder...
Ah yes, that leads to the fact that I'm not the only sick member of the household. Our washing machine is on the fritz. Yesterday, Bob dumped the towels soiled during our friends recent weekend visit into the machine. The machine (of uncertain vintage) proceeded to fill and fill and fill with a Sorcerer's Apprentice volume of dirty soapy water and promptly overflow. We scooped and bucketed and scooped and bucketed some more, thinking perhaps it had simply become jammed with too many soggy bath sheets. But the machine again began to belch forth copious gallons of water so Bob unplugged and we bailed anew. We are awaiting a voltage tester (being delivered by a friend) to see exactly which switch or sensor is out of sorts. I wouldn't have blamed Bob (or me!) for shooting the machine. There are now ten or so soaked and filthy towels lumped in the shower and on the bathroom floor. We didn't need this excitement.
