Return of the repressed.

Last night when the arson, I mean fireworks, started, I felt a sudden tickle, not to say scratch, in my throat.

I thought, am I getting sick? I coughed a few times, experimentally. Then not so experimentally. I coughed phenomenologically. Or perhaps existentially. It was a for real cough, not a trial.

The historian asked, "Are you coming down with something?"

I said, "I don't know." I thought about it. "I think it might just be the smoke." Because, as you know, the people, in a patriotic suburban neighborhood such as my own, the fourth of July is Fireworks City, and we're not just talking about a few sparklers.

We went out into the night, late, with Bruiser. We navigated the smoke like Aguirre in Aguirre, the Wrath of God navigating the Orinoco River on a misty morning.  I coughed a few more times.

I went to bed and thought, I'll wake up in the morning, the smoke will be cleared, I'll be fine.

the view from Sick.

But when I did wake up this morning, my head and eyes heavy, sneezing, I thought, shit. And took a DayQuil.

(Parenthetical: The people: I need to see a movie today. We have had all sorts of important and fun activities, many of which have kept us away from the SLC on the weekends. We are behind in our movie-going. This, despite the fact that I have made many efforts to see movies such as the Joss Whedon Much Ado About Nothing, Frances Ha, Oblivion, Man of Steel, and others I can't remember at the moment because of my heavy head and eyes. I was and am counting on this weekend to make a dent in that deficit! Is that too much to ask? I ask you! I mean really.)

After the historian's bike ride, and my second DayQuil:

Me: ...but I want you to know, I'm going to try really hard to feel good enough so we can go to a movie this afternoon.

The historian: Well, please do your best.

Me:  I'm going to give it my best effort.

The "Just Enjoy It" Project.

My son--the one who's moving away in a little over a week--called and said he'd like to bring the boys over for lunch. My youngest son decided we should make Chuckwagon, a dish of his own devising, I believe, that consists of a box of macaroni and cheese, cooked up, mixed with a can of chili con carne, with grated cheese mixed in, garnished with salsa and/or hot sauce. I felt fortunate that I had leftover Thai food.


We discovered that among the canned goods in our pantry were precisely zero cans of chili con carne. So I sent my son off to pick one up.

"Need anything else?" he asked, almost out the door.

"Some generic version of Claritin?" I needed it because for some reason, I'm in the throes of an allergy. At least I think it's an allergy. Anyway, I'm in the throes of something that is making me sneeze and making my eyes water, and I do not love it, not one bit.

When you're in the throes of an ailment, it's hard to just enjoy things. But not impossible. Yesterday, for instance, I found a couple of lawn chairs--bright red chaises--that were marked down at Target, which I bought up like a champ. I brought them home and set them up on the patio; I gave one the sit test, which it passed with flying colors.

Last night, I told the historian that I was going to eat my breakfast out there in one of those chairs. Which I did, whilst sniffling a bit and noting that the wind was likely to give me trouble. Which it has.

Even so: there are apples on the apple trees, and cherries on the cherry trees. The heat has had its way with the roses, but there are still roses. The wind in the trees sounds beautiful. My youngest son went with me to Glover's for some plants and potting soil--I discovered a bunch more empty pots that I had forgotten about, so there's a new garden wonderland that I'm about to make happen. Or something like that. I bought a fig tree. Will I be able to make it thrive? Who can say?

The boys and their dad came over for lunch. Chuckwagon was not a hit with either grandson. The solution for this dilemma was obviously a couple of quesadillas. We chatted and discussed and ate, and then they were off. I took another dose of medicine.

I just put clean sheets on the bed and decided which of the kajillion handbags that are basically the same shape I should keep and which I should give away. The laundry is almost done. I'll get to work on those plants later this evening, when it's cooler and maybe the wind will have died down.

I'm in the throes of summer. I have allergies. It's hot, and there's hot wind. But it's a pretty great day even so.

A letter to my action-packed, fun-filled life.

Dear My action-packed, fun-filled life,

Thanks for the awesome weekend in Idaho. Due to you, the weekend was (as advertised) packed with action and full of fun: my oldest, dearest friend; a dinner out; breakfast with everyone, including grandkids; a drive northward; walks by the river; talk talk talk; a trip to Bozeman; excellent food. Movies. Well, you know--you were there.

However, I must say, my action-packed &c., today, after I saw my friend to the airport and drove home, I got slammed with your immediate flip-side--the hell-to-pay side. The small print in the contract that says, "Pursuant to awesome weekends will be hell to pay, to wit: summer cold, a general whipped feeling, slight nausea, vertigo in public places, slightly dangerous driving decisions, sudden tears."

First there was the exhaustion, which necessitated a small nap. Then there were some small rainy tearfests for no good reason except that I miss my friend and love my kids and we are all mortal. Then, the brief excursion to PetsMart in which I found myself wandering the cat food aisle trying to find the old cat cat food. Then the sneezing, and now the sniffing. Actually, I'm not even sure what I'm saying here as I am writing on the internet with very overheated eyes.

My action-packed, fun-filled life, why you got to be like that?

Sincerely,

lisa b.