January 26, 1999
Careful What You Wish For.


When last we heard from Our Heroine, she was nursing her boyfriend back to health and making glib remarks about how now it was "her turn to get sick" (so the boyfriend could fuss over her a little, ostensibly).

I guess it's true what they say: be careful what you wish for.

I've been flat on my back in bed [andnotinagoodway] since Sunday morning, felled by an especially nasty strain of Basic Yuck, and the truth is that I'm too sick to even enjoy being sick  ...  and certainly too sick to write anything cute or funny or disgusting about being sick, like, "My head feels like a balloon stretched over a ripe pineapple," or "I keep hacking up this stuff that tastes like old Duracell batteries." As a matter of fact I'm headed back to bed right now, and I plan to stay there for at least another day.

But I'll be back ... soon.


*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *


Interesting e-mail from my mom, re: the front page photos:

"... You should probably know, just for the heck of it, that the picture of you sitting in the chair has some generational significance you may not remember. Behind that chair was my version of the laundry room. My old, black Remington typewriter sat on the pink vanity table I used for a desk ... in the corner of the living room. I spent a lot of time at that typewriter, working on my "Cedarhurst Notes" column for the Highline Times and the "Gateway Magazine" features ... 

... Anyway, the black Remington became your favorite toy--you made your first "words" on that piece of equipment and it's right there, behind the pink rocker where you sit with one bare foot showing. Prophetic?

Love,

Mom."


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