Past the "recently on winamp" list, I rarely acknowledge when a particular piece of music is flooding through my mind as I write, despite the fact that it happens often. Tonight—an exception. You can pick up an MP3 copy of "Story of Your Bones" at jennifernettles.com (it's under 'media'). She's an independent artist based in Georgia. Might not be to your taste, but it's worth pointing out.

By most people's standards, I don't think you'd call today a day of rest. There's nothing quite like realizing for the seven-millionth time that making dinner for fewer than eight people really isn't that big of a deal, but, really, it isn't. Dinner for five (like tonight) - a cakewalk. I could practically do it in my sleep at this point.

Saturday night, ten-thirty. I hide my nails from view, not from shame or modesty, but to keep light and careful fingers on my wallet and cell phone. We are standing less than a block north of the county library, at the 'hard rock' stage of Big Spring Jam—which, notably, is not held in the spring.

(It took me a year to find out that the park in downtown is named Big Spring Park. Thus, the festival is named after the park it is held in, and does not—as I originally assumed—point to the inability of local officials to distinguish spring from autumn.)We are playing at sanity tonight, Danielle, Jeremy, and I; we are avoiding the testosterone insanity of the mosh pit for a cushier, less-cramped view a few hundred feet back. Instead of jostling for room and oxygen up front, we are standing on the tiny strip of grass that separates the parking lot from the street.

It's really a pity that the entire process of feeling ill prevents you from enjoying the niceties that occasionally come from snagging the latest and nastiest bug to go around. Who in their right mind wouldn't enjoy being allowed to curl up on one's spouse and having one's hair lazily played with while watching Buffy reruns?