January 29, 1999
Holy Hills Brothers!


Yikes! Ever gone a week or so without coffee ... only to feel like the top of your head is coming off after just one cup?? (Well. OK. After just three cups?)

I've been so sick all week that the very thought of caffeine made me feel  --  to borrow a delicate turn of phrase from my pal Bottlenekk  --  like "singing the vegetable opera." (That little blob of Mentholatum smeared inside my oozing blistery nostrils was *stimulating* enough, thankyouverymuch.)  But yesterday David and I ventured out of our little den of infirmity long enough to do a modest grocery shopping, and we picked up a bag of espresso roast. I sat in the Subaru and stuck my whole face into the grocery bag.  

"I'd almost forgotten what it smells like," I told David in goony rapture.

I woke up early today, feeling closer to normal than I've felt all week. ("Normal" being relative, of course. I'm still sick. The flu has morphed now into a big sloppy head-cold: my faithful roll of Charmin is never more than a snotblast away. But I'm getting some of my oomph back, finally. And I can stand on my head again ... or I would, except my nose would drain into my hair.) The alarm wasn't set to go off for another hour, but I was almost painfully alert. So I figured I would get up and make coffee and quietly take care of some online stuff until it was time to wake David, who was snoring in happy oblivion beside me.

Once I tiptoed out to the kitchen, though, I realized that running the coffee grinder in a teeny-tiny apartment at 6:10 a.m., when 50% of The Castle's *population* is still blissfully sleeping, wouldn't be cool. So I settled for the infinitely-more-thoughtful noiseless cup of tea, and I waited patiently until I heard him waking up. And then I made coffee for both of us.

David drinks his coffee lukewarm, laced with milk and sugar, usually downed in two or three healthy glugs while standing at the kitchen counter. I drink mine black as ink, scalding hot, and in as prolonged and leisurely a fashion as possible. (Read this: my cup is ALWAYS "half-full.") Even under the worst of circumstances, coffee is one of life's great pleasures for me. This morning it tasted like heaven in a mug.

Until I noticed that my ears were ringing.

And that I was typing really really fast. (And that I was using three fingers on each hand, instead of my usual two.)

And that it was 10 a.m. already and I was still sitting at the computer, surrounded by telephone directories and Bay Area maps, typing a bazillion words a minute, dribbling espresso roast down the front of my nightgown.

And that my heart was pounding against the sides of my chest like a fudking cannonball.

Holy Hills Brothers.

I unceremoniously dumped out the rest of the pot ... *flushed* my quivering system with a gallon or so of cranberry juice (I'm gonna be in the bathroom all afternoon. I just know it) and stood under the shower for an obscenely lengthy period of time, until everything stopped ringing and pounding and flailing and quivering. Now I'm back to normal once again, but I guess I'm going to have to take it slow and easy for awhile longer. You can't just bounce back from the flu in one day, apparently. 

(Cancelling that Baja Gordita for dinner ...)

And yes, I'm still waiting to hear from Mr. Interviewer Person, but I'm getting twitchy. My former boss (from The Knife Factory) wrote me an e-mail today and said that the company I'm waiting to hear from called her, earlier this week, to check my references. "I was as honest as I could be," she wrote to me. "I told them that you were the best receptionist we ever had, and that you were amazing with difficult customers."  (Whew. At least she didn't tell them about The Unfortunate James "I Loved You In *F-Troop*" Drury Incident.)  I figure that if I haven't gotten a call from Mr. I.P. by lunchtime today, I'll take the bull by the horns and call him. What can it hurt? If nothing else, I can say that I've got other interviews coming up  --  which is true  --  and that I've been offered the lead in a Broadway musical, so if they want to hire me they might want to think about doing so immediately -- which isn't strictly true, but might get his attention, at least. (Until he asks me to sing, of course. Then I'm in trouble ... unless he's fond of vegetable operas.)


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