I'm still sick -- this morning I had my usual battle of petulance and guilt in which I eventually decided to stay home for the morning but drag myself to work after lunch. When I called my boss to tell her this, the first thing she said after hearing my voice was, "Oh my god, you're really sick. Don't come to work." So I slept until 2:00, which is how I've pretty much spent my weekend in accordance with ancient wisdom and what my mom told me to do whenever I was sick. I may not have been so successful at following the advice that my dad gave me when I was sick, namely, "Don't cough." Trying not to cough is kind of like playing The Game. Which I just lost.
I've found any number of fantastic ways to use 72 straight hours sitting blearily around the house. Sleep, obviously, gets a gold star for making the hours speed by. Watching Star Trek: The Next Generation episodes on my laptop while lying in bed is pretty damned awesome, but tends to make me feel like I'm becoming sessile by about the third straight episode. Commenting on political blogs isn't a top choice, as it requires me to keep a sharp stick around and jab myself with it any time I feel tempted to enter a flame war. Finding out how many cups of Throat Coat tea it takes to make me start to pee green is of course very interesting, but the trips to the bathroom get tiring (and no, I'm not telling you the answer, you have to find out for yourself).
Today I decided to try something actually productive, namely, writing to my grandparents. While venturing out to the corner store for cough drops I stopped in at a stationery store and bought some notecards, then came home and stamped and addressed a bunch of envelopes. There are some for my maternal grandmother, who's now rattling around with two attendants in the big house in Chatsworth where I used to spend as much time as in my own house. Her first card is already written and waiting to be mailed.
My paternal grandparents are more of a conundrum. They're the side of the family -- actually, I'm pretty sure they're the specific two -- responsible for the sarcastic and slightly unbalanced eye through which I view written communication and the world in general. My grandmother, who emails me periodically, doesn't like to be called Grandma and has started signing her messages simply as Mary. My grandfather has always officially been Grandpa, but more often in practice has been addressed as Grump. I'm fairly certain they'd both be disappointed in me if I sent them a card addressed to "Grandma and Grampa", but using first names for my grandparents just seems too New-Agey for my taste. This search for just the perfect way to be affectionate and yet clever is the kind of thing I can do for hours, sitting with pen poised over paper while the ideas swish in my head. It's why, when I started writing two hours ago, I've still gotten only as far as making out the envelope. It goes as follows.
I don't know any Woolseys.
(Address, city, etc.)
Watch the post office mark this as "suspicious mail" and forward it to the FBI for careful inspection. If she doesn't know any of them, how did she know they were at that address? It must be ESP. Or espionage, which starts with the same letters after all. Oh my god, the terrorists are using their minds against us! Pass out the tinfoil hats, boys, we're in big trouble.Posted by dianna at March 5, 2007 08:01 PM