My throat hurts, really.
7:29 p.m.
Okay, so I feel like sheeit, my throat is sore, my head is aching, and yet because I�m the mother, I�m the one who has to do the grocery shopping (we were out of milk etc.), make the meals, feed the masses, shoe the shoeless, and make the crooked straight. What am I, God? Okay, don�t answer that question. I might have to kill you.
As I was gathering up my cloth bags to make a trip to the grocery store for supplies, I remembered that there was a vernissage at Up1ands today and that they serve wine and goodies at these events. So I stopped by the museum on my way to the store (they�re practically on the same street, that�s how small my town is) and looked at paintings, pottery, wood carvings and stained glass and chatted up neighbours and townies who I only see at these gatherings. I made a point of neither kissing nor shaking hands so as not to spread my microbes around, but I did indulge in one glass of red wine and a piece of brie with pepper jam on a slice of baguette.
After buying groceries, I rewarded myself for being brave in the face of adversity by going to the local ice cream vendor (he�s only open during the summer season) for a treat, but was disappointed that he had no mint-chcolate-chip ice cream, although it is visible on the wall in a huge photograph. Saddened, I had regular vanilla-chocolate-chip ice cream and enjoyed it almost as much, letting the icy coldness slide down my poor beleaguered throat. Then I went home, put groceries away, and sat down at the computer to update my diary and could not.
But now I can, and I just did. So there.
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