Bless me

I have a cold, and it's all J's fault.

It nearly did him in last week, which of course pissed him off because it was his Easter/Passover break from the perils of teaching 6-hours-and 37-minutes per day, less prep, lunch, and nap, and not including Fridays which are 6-hours-20-minutes. Instead of stormtrooping Home Depot he had to settle for wheezing in his woodshop and spending far too much time at the doctor.

He was kind enough to share the bug with me. I normally don't accept these things but this one crept into my delicate nose and now has me cranky. Of course, I'm not nearly as sick as he was, but it's still annoying. My throat hurts, I'm sneezing too often to be blessed, and I'm just slightly mud-brained.

The good news is, I am drinking LOTS of iced tea. Yesterday I sucked down two pitchers of Republic of Tea's blackberry sage. So delicious, and it doesn't need sweetener. Today, it's Bentley's Mango White. It's good to know that simple things still comfort.

The bunny trail

So last Saturday we were at Wal-mart, and J was frolicking with the discount paintbrushes and el-cheapo sno-cone syrup like a lottery winner in a ho-house. After loading my wifely cart with Bounty, White Cloud, Lysol Wipes, and trash bags, I plunked myself down on a bench in plasticware to await his clearance for departure.

I was not far from the day's highlight--a mangy white rabbitish human holding an egg and wearing footie pajamas. He was conveniently ambling between the endless shelves of Easter candy, baskets, cellophane grass, plastic eggs, doo-dads, and other crap--and the garden center, where a disinterested woman was getting reamed for giving out two free pansies instead of one.

I tried not to watch all the parents filling their carts with Easter booty right in front of their mewling progeny, thus destroying any potential belief in the true Easter Bunny who hops through windows and fills baskets while the wee ones are fast asleep. Now it's all "Mom, gimme," and into the cart it plops.

But then a mother with two girls, perhaps 3 and 4, wandered up, and the tinier girl stopped in absolute awe, her face glowing, her little legs jumping up and down. "Mommy," she whispered, "Mommy, mommy, mommy! It's him. Look! The Easter Bunny!"

And in that instant, I believed, too.

In small packages

In December I pitched and sold an article to For Me magazine, Woman's Day's younger, hipper little sister. I've been trying to crack the women's market for over a year and finally, I nailed it. Of course, as soon as she accepted my piece, my brilliant editor quit to be a factchecker at Teen Vogue. But such is life.

Anyway, it was slated to run in the May issue and for the last two weeks, I've been hitting grocery mag racks and Borders like a stalker. On Tuesday I went to the new Barnes & Noble to scavenge their giant racks. Much to my delight, a manager saw me hunting and offered to help. We bent and stretched and did all sorts of Pilates, but alas, no For Me for me. Bah.

But I am easily consoled, and so marched off to the cafe for a venti iced decaf whole milk sugar-free hazelnut latte. And for the first time in my entire $4+ ridiculous beverage life, the clerk repeated it back perfectly, marked it on the cup, and invited me to sit down and relax while he whipped it up. Well!

Ass parked in a chair, I glanced at the cafe's rack of recommended mags and books, and there it was: the May For Me, with Sarah Jessica Parker on the cover. I held my breath, pulled it open, and there it was, in all its glory.

Have you ever seen a fat lady dance in a cafe?