Wow. I can't remember the last time my butt was so thoroughly kicked by a virus. For the last ten days I've been hovering between killmenow and forget it, I'm too tired to kick a bucket.

Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad, but I wasn't happy. I started drooping on the 17th, hit the floor on the 20th, kept spiraling down for three days, and didn't really start crawling back toward the vertical until yesterday. I'm at about 80% now, which constitutes a huge improvement.

That's really about all I have to report. I've spent my evenings sniffing, blowing, whining, and complaining.

I did very little last weekend and even less this past weekend. Even yesterday, when I took myself out in a search for new and different medicine, I found myself standing in the drugstore, staring vaguely at a lot of boxes, none of which seemed to promise the specific miracle cure I was hoping for. I left with a small bottle of aspirin that I didn't actually need.

If the R.C. hadn't kept a steady supply of soup, sympathy, pills, and tissues coming my way, I don't know what I'd have done. Now that I've had the same virus, I know I wasn't offering her nearly enough sympathy and support when she was sick.

She shouldn't have been so stoic. When the R.C. is sick, she mostly just keeps on keeping on. I mean, she mentioned, a couple of times, that she had a head cold. That's about it. Sheesh. When I'm sick, the world knows about it. I curl up in a chair and whimper--not quietly--for days.

By the way, it snowed last night.