Singing the blues

 

This dismal, damp day is a perfect reflection of the way I feel. I don’t know how long it’s been since I had a good, old-fashioned common cold, but one of the upper respiratory type has hit me. For several days I passed it off as allergies, but clearly it is not. I’m coughing, my throat feels tight, and I’m hoarse—I won’t get any more clinical than that. I was emailing with Sue, my Canadian daughter, this morning, and she wrote, “How in the world did you catch cold? You never go anywhere?” That startled me. Do you have to go somewhere? I actually have been out a couple of times, and people come to see me. And who knows how you catch cold? Maybe it’s just airborne. I’m not sure scientists know. It just happens, and then you have to live with it for a week or ten days.

Last night for our regular Tuesday night happy hour we had “Hot Dog Happy Hour.” Mary’s husband doesn’t eat hot dogs, and good German girl that she is, she occasionally craves a hot dog with relish and kraut. Always a good meal to me, so Jordan served us and included some Bush’s Original Baked Beans. A great meal, but hallway through I couldn’t eat. I think it was my cold. Took a moment and finished most of my dinner, but the episode upset me.

Then I had an angry phone call about the neighborhood newsletter I edit. I am really upset with myself that I ended up raising my voice in an effort to stop my critic from talking over me. Didn’t help and worsened my hoarseness and sore throat. Looking back, I should have put the phone on speaker, let her rave, and ignored it. But I was blindsided by the call. Next time!

Unfortunately I took those two incidents to bed with me and dreamt about them. But I slept ten and a half hours which I figure I needed. Sleep for me is never continuous—I am up to use the restroom (a curse of aging, I think) and in the wee hours, up to feed Sophie, then up an hour later to let her out. But still, I had plenty of good long sleep.

This morning I cancelled my dinner plans, a good move since I feel lethargic, and my cough is now to the point where it might alarm other restaurant patrons. I actually did a lot of work this morning, but then took a long nap. When Sophie first woke me, I thought I had written a long blog, but the details blurred as I got going.

My dream blog had to do with a company re-introducing Dorothy Gray cologne—you have to be really old to remember that, but it was the fragrance my mother always wore. In an effort to imitate that, I have worn Jean Naté for years—nothing else, just the one scent. Once in a car going who knows where one of my granddaughters held my hand and then said, “You smell like your house.” “Maybe,” I suggested, “my house smells like me.” The idea must have intrigued me because the rest of the dream had to do with a log cabin that smelled like Dorothy Gray.

At lunchtime I got ambitious and made myself some chicken salad, though I ate very little. I’m in the mood for “invalid food” though not quite to the point of my mom’s milk toast. Her crackers and butter in milk were pretty good, though, and my stock favorite was a can of tomatoes (they didn’t come diced in the day, and in my childhood, they were often home canned) with crushed saltines and lots of butter. But tonight, I think a “Tom Sawyer”—poached egg on a raft of cheddar cheese and toast. What’s your favorite comfort food?