I got up this morning with a stomach that feels like it left home without me sometime during the night. I’m trying to get it calmed down to the point where we can get in the car and drive for a couple of hours … and wondering how that’s going to work out.
Saintly. As far as I know, it means your death is going to be particularly horrible. No mere dying in bed of old age. More like getting fried on a hot platter or nailed upside down to a tree or slowly hanged or drowned. But you can be sure that sainthood is going to hurt.
We are on our way to Connecticut to visit Tom and Ellin, except that I’m not feeling so great. I really want to feel better. To this end, I have taken any medication that I believe might possibly make me feel better. So far, the idea hasn’t quite worked, but I’m still hoping. I’ve had this “coming down with something” feeling for a few days, so this isn’t as much of a surprise as it should be.
I’m so determined to feel better — and very soon, please. Well, that’s MY story.
That and looking at my house and wondering what happened. Between last night and this morning, it looks as if no one has ever cleaned it. What were those dogs DOING all night?
It’s going to be a quite few days and please forgive us if we are spotty in our responses. We need the time off and this time, and for once, we’re going to really take it. Off, I mean. Not saintly. Just vacating.