Today is yet another sick day. I woke up this morning feeling utterly wretched and highly mucotic, despite mainlining zinc and Vitamin C and sleeping as much as The Man will allow. Big accomplishments include taking a shower, taking out the trash, and doing two loads of laundry. I feel like doing something nice for myself this evening, but what? I could rent a movie, but it would have to be something that doesn’t have to be returned tomorrow, since I’m off to DC to see D. Having something good for dinner won’t cut it, since I can’t taste anything. I hate how slow and vapid I feel when I’m sick, as if my thoughts can’t squeeze through my swollen sinuses.

Yesterday, Mimi Smartypants posted a link to a public radio piece she did, where she read excerpts from her journal. (It was 24 June 2003, if you’re searching the archive, and the “Writers Block Party” segment featuring La Smartypants is, oh, about 3/4 of the way through. If you’re in a rush.) She sounded great — relaxed and bemused, with a rich voice that was somewhat lower than I’d have imagined it. I want her to get a ton of positive fan response from her radio debut, propelling her into a regular slot on This American Life and a fat book contract complete with a national tour of independent bookstores. Not that I wish a kind of hollow fame for her — nor, by extension, a bizarre state of literary groupiedom for myself — I just want more people to know how unerringly great and funny she is. Yes, I know it’s unseemly for someone like me to have such an overt crush. . . .

I need to go out of the house at some point and buy more Kleenex and orange juice. I need to pack. It’s been at least a month since I weekended in DC. I’ll probably forget to pack something crucial or to leave enough food for Theo the Cat. With my luck, the damp, clothes that are hanging all over my apartment won’t be dry by the time I need to zip up ye olde duffel tomorrow morning — the air is supersaturated with ozoney humidity — and they?ll become mildewed before I even land at DCA. Grump to the third power.

Maybe it’s all preemptive grumpage — like I’m afraid to be too happy ever since Beth, our realtor, told me that we were approved for the apartment we want. I’m very jinx-conscious these days.

– editrix