fever dreams

Current temp is 102°F. I am currently incubating some nonspecific virus—that is not influenza—which currently thinks I am teh hawtness.

Or it's making me that. Whatever.

Jeff is tending me, all but putting the ibuprofen in my mouth every six hours, and bringing me things like Gatorade and cool washcloths for my neck.

Note to self. Keep spouse.

At least PHE is over. I can take as long as I need to get well. There's no timetable.

incoming: PHE 2006

We are nearly prepared. Yes, PHE 2006 is just about to land on us, and land on us with this sickening, alcoholic *thump*.The RSVP list currently stands somewhere around 40. There will be thirteen people staying in our house alone. I have a fridge full of food, and I'm not done yet.

I have a sweater to finish knitting for Saturday—if I'm diligent, I will finish tonight.


In my brain, the storm-signal flags are at 'PHE hurricane warning' level: instead of black-on-red squares, blue-on-white squares with little penguins at the bottom. Not to mention the little dusty white fingerprints from the all-purpose flour I've been going through like water.

Oatmeal cookies? Check.
Gingerpeople? Check.
Molasses spice cookies? Tomorrow.
Chocolate chip cookies? Not gonna bother until Saturday and Sunday.

germ warfare

Monday night: "Uh, I don't think we should go to the movies tonight. I feel kinda funny. I'm gonna lie down, I think."

Tuesday: "Why does this thermometer say my temp is 102°F?"

Wednesday morning, Dr. Fisher: "You have the flu, Jeff. Here's a prescription for Tamiflu. Don't go back to work before Monday."

love letter

New Year's Eve is a night in which, by all repute, you're supposed to post something thoughtful and pithy and resolute. Or just drunken, depending on your inclination. Instead, it's just me and Joey Negro, riding the end of my alcohol intake for the night off into the land of sleepy buzz.

2005 was quiet. For the most part, I've come into my own. Life is good, if quiet. House. Cats. Friends.

Pan-Holiday Extravaganza

Kat: "I think we're going to need a buffet table for all this food."

From a Saturday-night email dated mid-September of this year: "Our Recruitment office is doing really well. Normally, this is good, but come Christmastime, it's a royal financial pain in the tail to buy gifts for everyone in the group. Yeah, yeah, I know gift-giving is supposed to be a 'gift,' not a 'right,' but lots of things work out differently in theory than in practice… Would you be interested in drawing names for a Christmas exchange this year?"

You know your group of friends has expanded when you remember when planning for your yearly Christmas party once was "scrawl down a list of friends' names, email everyone to see if they're available next Saturday, and make something edible." Something edible, of course, meant "I'll figure out what I'm cooking sometime later." You know things have changed when this year's holiday party planning involves lunch with two other friends, details, and actual division of labor.

Fast-forward three months to what jokingly became known as the Pan-Holiday Extravaganza; too late for Christmas, too early for New Year's.

In the grand southern tradition, we gathered together and ate copious amounts of food. It could be said that geeks don't cook, and this would probably be a true statement if the geek in question was Jeremy (whose sworn duty for the PHE was to obtain carbonated drinkage), but the rest of us appear to have mastered the art of applying varying amounts of heat to tasty morsels of edible matter:

Roast turkey, ham, sweet potato casserole, corn, baked beans, green bean casserole, salad-of-doom, rosemary and garlic mashed potatoes, three kinds of freshly-baked bread, turtle cake, pumpkin cheesecake, turtle cheesecake, pecan pie...

Why, yes, we did explode. Whatever made you guess?