I think my body conspired against me to kill me dead yesterday. I’m sure of it. But I prevailed and have emerged the victor! Or should that be victoria, since I’m female?
Why oh why when I try and write “female”, I end up writing “femaile”? I wish I could say it’s because of the pounding in my head, the cramps in the area of my stomach, but I do it even when healthy. So surely it’s not that.
I’m reading a book (and yes, this will be a completely random post, just typing what pops in to my head). I started it yesterday. It’s a review book, a book I was excited to read. I’m not normally a huge fan of Biblical fiction, but this one looked very good.
And the first 3 pages were.
I’m just going to blurt this out, “If you’re writing Biblical fiction, do not, I repeat, DO NOT change the Biblical story!” The book is now ruined for me.
Today is Wednesday, our crazy-crazy run around day. Normally by now I’d be rushing around church getting ready for Bible study, making coffee, chatting with the other ladies. And even though I am feeling better, I’m not 100% yet (I was going to share about the nasty-dastardly deeds my tummy threatened when I ate some banana, but I won’t. It might be early morning for you too), so Mr. FullCup, bless his heart, came, got the girls, and took them so they could babysit.
Speaking of being sick, I thought chicken soup was supposed to cure what ailed you. I made chicken rice soup Monday night. Apparently it doesn’t work for me.
I did share it with some sick friends. I mean sick as in they weren’t/aren’t healthy. Not as a derogatory term. I wonder if it cured them or killed them.
If it was the latter I’m not sure I want to know. And I sure hope they didn’t tell anyone in a note before they passed that it was my chicken soup that was the final straw in their fight for life. I just couldn’t handle that. Imagine going the rest of my life with that hanging over my head.
But hey! It’d be a great way to get out of taking dishes to a potluck. No one in their right mind would want my cooking to show up. Imagine the poor bloke who hadn’t been warned away from my cooking…I can hear the air being sucked out of the room right now.
“Oh NO!!! He took her cooking! He’s gonna die!!”
It is painfully obvious that my cat now, Darla, is not my old cat, Alex. Plainly and painfully obvious. Alex would, when I was not feeling up to snuff (really? who says that? Who wants to feel like snuff?), lay as close as he could to me. He refused to leave my side. He always just knew when I wasn’t feeling well. Darla doesn’t care. If I’m in bed, sick, she’s ignoring me. It’s like she knows, but is afraid to get too close for fear she might succumb. But she should realize when she’s puked her guts out, she always wants to come cuddle, and I don’t ignore her.
She is right now licking the side table. I don’t know why. She’s weird. And I don’t know why. Her latest fixation is the bath tub. When it’s empty of course. Because it would be really weird if she liked it full. Which she doesn’t.
Tonight I’m making the beef and bean burritos again, so tomorrow I’ll be posting them…with pictures. Unless I succumb to the death that seems to be haunting me.
But I don’t think it will. Or I will. Or I’m not planning on dying anytime soon.