Pampered

I'm not sure what monshu was planning to make for dinner this evening, all I know is that the chicken cutlets I saw in the fridge yesterday looked ready to be pounded into schnitzel. When I dragged myself up this morning, however, the chicken he was cutting up was completely different. "I'm making chicken soup," he told me. "I won't put any noodles in it. I'll make them separately. That way you can have it with them or with rice." The evening before, I told him that Sunday evening's scratchy throat had become something more, with aches and dizziness in the bargain. He made his usual remarks about what a physical wreck I am and I spent a rough night wrestling with earache and reflux before calling in.

I'm often sensitive to changes in the weather, but in this case the reappearance of the polar vortex is coinciding with my infirmity rather than causing it. It's so wonderfully refreshing outside, I wish I could enjoy it more. At least it means that my methods for dealing with a cold/flu/viral infection--mainly lying in bed and drinking hot tea--are more apropos than they would normally be for the middle of July. And, fortunately, I'm not too ill to get some reading done: Chacón, Proulx, and now Schreiner. I was chuffed to find I'd pushed my way through her philosophical interlude only to run smack into a ponderous allegory on the pursuit of Truth. For all its flaws, however, still of more than solely historical interest. And the Veronica Mars movie showed up in the mail today, but I couldn't convince poor monshu--who spent the day cleaning and missed his nap--to watch it with me tonight.