(no subject)

So I woke up at 3 a.m. with (a) pounding headache, and (b) searingly raw throat. The former can be attributed to the half-bottle of red wine consumed last night, and I don't begrudge it a bit--a 2001 Renwood Old-Vine Zinfandel, ohmy*god* so rich and sumptuous and wonderful. The latter, however, appears to be the sign that my uncanny run of cold-germ-avoiding luck this fall has run out, and so today I am guzzling grapefruit juice and hot ginger tea and vitamins and making a big pot of garlic soup and preparing to collapse on the sofa with old MST3K tapes and a box of kleenex.

It is, I must say, a good day (if there is ever such) to be sickish and sofabound--outside it's in the mid-30s, with a steady cold drizzle falling, which will soon turn into freezing drizzle and sleet, and then into snow. So bundling in with a blanket and hot drinks feels good. But my voluminous-writing plans are temporarily in abeyance, being as how my brain feels like a boiled turnip. Sadness.

And I'm hoping this doesn't derail my getting-together plans for tomorrow with Deb and Carol and Jackie--I've sometimes been able to short-circuit a cold early on via the vitamins-ginger-garlic-total-collapse method. (Ladies, let me know, of course, if you'd rather I just kept my germy self well away from you, which I would totally understand.)