We're all a bit sick around here, dear reader. Nothing riveting. Nothing worth a mention.
Not like the time I was so incredibly sick my throat and ears felt like hot pokers were lodged therein and I went to the doctor in such a state of misery I could hardly believe I was still being expected to live and breathe.
It was that insufferable, not to be melodramatic or anything.
After the doctor saw me, the nurse came in to offer an antibiotic and for whatever reason gave me the option of an oral medication or one which could be administered via needle. Since the act of swallowing had long since been sworn off as a bodily function, I weakly gestured that the shot would suffice.
When she returned with the needle, I rolled up my sleeve.
And she was all: Oh, honey, this isn't meant for your arm.
And I was all (archly): Well, I can't imagine where else you'd stick it.
And she was all (seeing my archly and raising it an eyebrow): Really?
And that's all I feel like telling of that story, except to say I went in thinking I was at the doctor's and left feeling it was more like the vet.
At any rate, no antibiotics necessary for Caroline. No siree. Apparently all that's required to make her feel fantastic is the chance to play mancala and beat me three times in a row.
And don't think you could walk away with your shirt on either, dear reader. That girl is a shark. She's a ringer. All it takes is one brief daydream, one idle gaze out the window and bam! She's scooping up your pebbles and laughing like a hyena.
I'm not a gambling woman by any means, but if mancala was something you could play on the Strip I'd be hard pressed not to take her down there and start earning some egg money.
That's pretty much all the excitement around here, dear reader. Just low grade illness, nothing to make a fuss about.
Pretty much the only thing it's doing is impairing my judgement more so than usual because today, I was cleaning the bathroom and gave myself a prison fight of a cut with a razor blade. How did it happen? I already told you: impaired judgement. But that's not the important part. You should have seen the blood! You should have seen the gore!
And the only thing I could think of, as I was cleaning it all up, is that I hope no one gets murdered around here for the next 24 hours or I'm going to have a dilly of a time explaining why my DNA is splattered high and low, from the bathroom to the kitchen to this very keyboard, where my Hello Kitty bandaid is proving to be more cute than actually effective.