I have the flu. I got the flu shot, and I still got the flu.
Luckily, I had the good sense to have the worst of it while M was around. I collapsed into bed and only came up for air to watch episode two of Downton. Poor Edith. Poor, poor Edith. She didn’t have the flu, but she did get jilted at the altar. By a one-armed, old man with watery eyes.
Last week I promised myself I would NOT watch Downton looking like a scullery maid. Lady Mary wore one ridiculously marvelous outfit after the other (there was a fuchsia dress that had me gasping), and there I was in my ratty, mismatched pajamas. (Last year I resolved to get rid of all my awful bed-wear and replace it all with stuff I’d be happy to leave the house wearing. Apparently, I’d be happy leaving the house wearing over-sized striped pants and a bleach-stained tartan top.) Next week, I told myself, there would at least be a good nightie, pearls and some lip gloss.
Alas, the flu struck and I have no idea what I wore because I sweat through six pairs of pajamas last night and awoke wearing M’s clothes.
I have quite a bit on my plate at the moment and this was meant to be the week of remarkable progress. There are lists and charts dedicated to the ridiculous amounts of work I was going to wade through this week. Instead, I am drinking tea and watching even more work pile up.
Perhaps Edith would like to trade places. Even if it’s only for a week.
Bennett and two friends are running through the house bringing things to Tracy. Who is Tracy, you ask? Tracy is our new hamster.
Because I need something else that is awake all night and shits wherever it wants to.
I don’t know why they named her Tracy.
I didn’t have the heart to tell them that if your name is Tracy:
a) you were born in the 1970’s or
b) you are a porn star.
I suppose with a name like Tracy you can also be hamster.
Welcome to the funny farm, Tracy.