I’m sorry I never called to arrange a meeting last weekend when you were in town. Were I not horribly sick, I would have gladly met you and my demise at your handiwork and the Socks of Doom. Instead, I await my death via post.
Last week was gastrointestinally challenging and culminated in a cold that hit me like a truck. I was down for the count on Saturday, so much so that I didn’t swim at a fundraiser where my team was performing. Putting on a brave face and holding my tummy, I stoically pressed play and stop at the appropriate times on the iPod. Afterwards, a nap and a gradual return to eating. God bless miso soup and plain spaghetti with a bit of butter and salt! It’s so rare that I don’t want to eat.
I still don’t know what caused my upset gut. I feel lucky, having never experienced bloating and pain like that up to now. (Sorry for the graphic details, but to read me is to know me.) Was it the spicy shrimp curry at Vik’s (stick with the veggie dishes!) on Wednesday? Or the shock to my system from the raw kale and friends at the vegan Cafe Gratitude (I am gaseous)? Or was it the atypical two beers with dinner on Friday?
After my intestines returned to their normail size, there was the congestion, sore throat and general run-down-ness of a cold to contend with. I must have finally caught what C was suffering through all week. Nothing a few days of herbal teas and a lot of rest couldn’t fix. Sunday was the worst, but I was feeling it through Wednesday of this week.
Now, I’m back in fine form. I’ve returned to knitting, though not socks, as I still haven’t received my target’s target’s target’s work. This week I made what I consider to be my best hat to-date from the farm wool. Betsy’s hoodie calls. M still hasn’t told me what color she wants for her special FU mittens. The socks begun on the way to the farm need a heel flap. And, I’m fielding phone calls from my mom as she begins her first pair of socks after a 35+ year hiatus from knitting.
If you haven’t already sent them, I’ll be in Portland (well, Beaverton) from Thursday night until Sunday morning. You could kill me on your own home turf, but I guess that loses some of the stalker-fun quotient of you being in my town. Oh well. I’m just looking forward to a dandy new pair of foot coverings.