[EDITORIAL NOTE: [EDITORIAL NOTE: The Sunday Issues post could use some input from you. If you have blog stories from this week to submit for the list, be sure to email links to me by end of today, Friday.]
It’s not really a hangover, it just feels like it - and the alliteration is nice.
No proper post today. The cat’s sick with who knows what. I’m sick too with a bad cold/flu-ish bug that has left me cotton-headed, chilled, ache-y and with a low, sexy voice a la Kathleen Turner in Body Heat except that words like, “Oh, poor Ollie, did you barf again” are hardly seductive.
Here’s Ollie curled up in “his” chair. Hours pass without a whisker moving.
Cats do this on purpose, you know – get sick on holidays or at other inconvenient times – because they like to wield their power over us and will go to any length, even refusing to eat or pee, to remind us of their superior position in the scheme of things and our position as slave.
Ollie and I spent Wednesday driving back and forth to the animal emergency center, which is about as far from home as possible while still remaining within the city limits of Portland, Maine. After a follow-up phone discussion with the veterinarian yesterday, Ollie and I both spent all of Thanksgiving Day sleeping.
Here’s Ollie on a much healthier day last week.
And now that this is posted, we’re both going back to bed for awhile before more doctor appointments.
[At The Elder Storytelling Place today, Marvin Waldman regales us with a story of teenage angst in The Sexual History of Adam Feingold – Part 1: The Breast.]