Home, Sick

     I'm in Day Two of a cold that has me home and sleeping a lot.  I have named it "Tamaritis," in honor of the first known patient.  (She says she has no idea where it came from.  Possibly elfshot, or a gladhanding candidate for political office, which amounts to the same thing,)

     It is some kind of a respiratory bug.  Hers settled in her lungs.  Mine's gone after my sinuses so far, with some of my usual inner-ear symptoms like dizziness, disorientation and a decided tilt to either the universe or me, depending on one's point of view.  A constant for both of us is utterly vile chills, the kind of creeping coldness that nothing seems to mitigate.  It seems to search out the infected person's weak points.

     I have continued with salt-water gargles when my throat gets scratchy, honey-sweetened hot lemonade* (I used up all the lime concentrate and the honey's getting low) coffee† and chicken soup.  There's a microwave-pouch version of the latter that's pretty good.  Tonight is Trash Night, so I shall endeavor to persevere in doing my part by cleaning out the fridge and changing a couple of litter boxes.  You would not want me operating a motor vehicle at present.  I'm having a tough enough time navigating on my own two feet.
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* And not, I hasten to point out, hot-honey sweetened lemonade.  Who knows, it might help, but I shall put off that experiment until I think I really, really need it.
 
† No known therapeutic value but I wouldn't want to do without it.