What Would the CVS Clerk Say About YOU?

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Blair and I need passport photos to attach to our visa applications to enter Russia. Blair went to CVS last night for his and I followed this morning.

After the girl snapped the photos, she pulled the pictures up on a screen. Along with my photos were the pictures of the last few people whose photos she'd snapped.

"That's my husband," I said pointing to Blair's picture.

The clerk clutched a hand to  her heart and turned to face me, her face melting in a soft little "Oh" of admiration. "That's your husband? He is the nicest man. He had to wait around for me to get his picture and he was so patient and kind about it."

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Why We Don't Talk: Smug Married Perspective

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For the past two years I've referred to Blair's car as "The Deathtrap." It was a Lexus in a former life, but it's now a molting green blob that sheds car parts according to the season. Blair and I both pride ourselves on driving our cars into the ground, but even I'm willing to call it quits on this one.

Blair insists it's safe and that the problems are only cosmetic. Whatever. I just don't feel safe riding in a car that takes 5 minutes for the dash lights to warm up and come on, the wood trim paneling comes unglued, the mirrors no longer work (rotate), and it looks like a Jack-the-Ripper wanna-be had a go at the seats with his knife kit. 

To my horror, Blair actually drives co-workers around in this monstrosity when they go to lunch. I can only assume that since he's their boss, they're afraid of losing their jobs if they admit to their fear and say no. 

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The TMI Post

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I'm typing this under a medicated Nyquil-haze, which probably explains my willingness to out myself on what may be a semi-icky post, but here goes nothing. 

I was talking to BFF Trisha on Thursday, as I drove toward Cincinnati. We were talking about packing and I mentioned that it's always a relief to visit her because even if I forget something, she'll have it. We're the same shoe size, we use the same hair products, exchange clothes and jewelry, etc. We hung up and I continued driving and about an hour later--for no reason I can discern--a lightbulb went off in my head. I called her back. 

"For the love of God," I said. "I forgot to pack the only two items on the planet I can't borrow from you."

"And that would be....?" she asked. 

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The No-Sick Streak Ends

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That's what bragging will get you. I was saying to someone just last week that it had been over four years since I'd had so much as a cold. Maybe the occassional twinge of "Uh-oh, I hope I'm not getting a sore throat," but nothing that lasted over an hour or two. 

This weekend I'm in Ohio visiting my best friend. We drove to Columbus on Saturday to see my cousin and her husband and their new (ADORABLE) baby. On the way back to Cincinnati, I sneezed. That did it. Within an hour I was hacking, sneezing, coughing, and alternating chills and sweating. 

Fortunately, my best friend is the person you want to be around when you're sick. She fluffs your pillow, makes you hot tea and--in my case--fed me Grater's ice-cream. We LOVE her. 

I was not a happy camper on the 7-hour car ride home today, but I made it. I walked in the door, said hello to Blair and the cats and went straight to bed. Sleep heals me, so I plan on spending most of the next 18 hours in bed.

Blair just asked how I was feeling. 

"Like ass," I said. 

"That's my princess," he said. "Always the lady." 

It's good to be home.