The Most Important is the Ending in Anything You Tell

Well let's see, what to say first?

The cats are pretty much back to normal. After a bath for Frost and then lots of catnip poured on and around him and Eli, so they smelled not only good but the same, Eli is back to his same old alfa-I'll-push-you-around-once-in-a-while-just-to-remind-you-I'm-boss self. Frost, however; is still recovering, a little PTSD if you please.

I ordered some really terrific looking shoes that wrap around the top of your foot for perfect comfort with good tread,  hoping, as usual, to be able to find a shoe that doesn't hurt me too badly.

After waiting 3 weeks, they came today. In XL. I mean, seriously. I've been kidded my whole adult life at what little feet I have. Don't they know nuthin'?

So I've e-mailed them to complain.

The Northern Invasion (the good one) begins tomorrow. Since Yankee Cousin is bringing (her) Husband and (her) Brother, they wanted to rent a cabin. Yankee Cousin told them specifically she wanted to rent a cabin close to my house. They said okay! Told her that's what they'd done. She asked for specific directions, but they couldn't give those to her until a week before arrival date. (why, I don't know, do you?) When they gave them, she's NOT even close to my house. She asked them to swap. And guess what they said? They couldn't change accommodations so close to arrival date. Do you see anything wrong with this? So I  e-mailed them a very nice threatening-to-do-a-review-request, asking them to change her cabin. We'll see.

But the most important subject of this blog is you. I really did the previous blog about not winning at the Georgia Author of the Year Awards to make you laugh.

But instead I got a wonderful outpouring of love from so many of you that assured me I was really the best.

Sniff.

You said you were proud of me.

Well, I'm proud of ya'll, too.

I'm a winner, for sure.

What a Weekend!

Around eight o'clock Friday night my body exploded.

Okay, not really. But man, oh, man, it sure felt like it.

I was fine one second (in fact I'd had a pretty good day) and the next I had a full blown (pardon the pun) stomach virus.

Achy joints, fever, chills and all sorts of intestinal phenomenon took place. Finally, last night, about 48 hours later, it passed. (Pardon the pun, again).

At some point yesterday, late morning, maybe, I thought I really needed to come downstairs, if only for a few minutes. My fever had broken, so I wobbled on down for a few minutes.

Good Lord.

Husband had been in the kitchen.

Alone.

There was no discernible counter space seen. Both sinks were completely overrun with dirty dishes. The bottom dishwasher drawer was open. Somehow Husband had managed to get it stuck in that position.

The good news is, there were still a few clean dishes left in it.

He had attempted to fill the sugar canister, as it had emptied (mysteriously). But a large clump came out and he wound up spilling a third of it on the floor and surrounding areas.

If I hadn't been sick to my stomach before, that would have cinched the deal.

I think I swooned.

Even the fish, who resides on the window sill over the kitchen sink, was looking at me frantically. PTSD, I assume.

I never got as far as the pantry, where the two tall trash cans are, but I can guess.

I wobbled back to bed, and as soon as Daughter got up, I mewled to her that she had to clean up the kitchen.  She assured me those were her plans, not to worry.

Worry?

Who me?

By last night, the kitchen was back to the normal happy place it was designed to be. I was not afraid to eat something from it; feeling secure it no longer held any hidden plagues.

And I was feeling better, too.

Whatcha wanna bet I did not lose ONE pound through all this?

Ah, well.

It's good to be back.