"My boobies are fine," I told him.
"Why do you say that?" he asked.
"Because I nursed for one hundred and four years and have no family history."
Well, of course we both knew that was no guarantee. But still.
Anyway, I came home and fell in the bed and slept for two hours and woke up feeling like I was getting a cold. I've been trying to blame it all on pollen which it may be but I don't know. Then Mr. Moon came home with new lumber to repair the steps off the back porch and the first thing he said was, "I feel terrible. I think I'm getting the flu."
And then he went and sat in his chair and he's been asleep ever since.
This is a man who never admits to illness so he must really feel rough.
I'm making a chicken soup because that's what you do, right? So far it contains achiote paste, celery, onions, garlic, tomatoes, carrots and chicken. Oh. And Kale and mustard greens. And green chilies. Rice and lime juice will be involved. Or lemon juice. I'm not sure yet.
This has taken approximately every bit of energy I possess.
And Jessie has reported in that Vergil CAME HOME EARLY FROM WORK because he feels sick, nauseous, and bloated. So either he's coming down with the stomach thing or else he's pregnant.
Darling Lenore threw up all Sunday night and now her mother has it.
Well, illness. The gift that keeps on giving.
Still no baby chicks. Violet's still smushed on that nest. The feral cat hasn't shown up since Jack beat the crap out of him and I got a new broom yesterday at the restaurant supply house.
And here's a picture of Maggie rocking a diaper and her amber beads.
I'll let you know how this story unfolds.