Red Pencils

My loved one is away on business for a few days, but he left me with something – a song (more like a ditty of sorts) stuck in my head on continuous loop. The verses are about how hot and sexy (but not sleazy) I am, which is way cool, but the chorus is, “Don’t lick my bagel!” It has nothing to do with the rest of the song, but it is the part that is stuck in my head – worse than stuck in my head because it keeps sneaking out! I find myself walking along or thinking I am alone in the office (when actually the systems guy is hiding behind the servers and the boss is just being very quiet in his office), “hmmm hmmm hmm hmm, DON’T LICK MY BAGEL!” My coworkers must think I am totally nuts.

It has been an amazingly productive week; I have gotten so much done work wise and personally. I am afraid that it is going to come to a screeching halt, though, as the specter (no, not the AC-130 gunship) of illness hangs over me. Everyone around here has the CHICKEN POX!! I never had the chicken pox, and though I am thoroughly vaccinated against everything from encephalitis to anthrax I never got the chicken pox vaccine. The clinic says its too late, if I have been exposed I’ll just have to ride it out. If I don’t write for awhile, its because I’m all poxy. I think I have a fever, the world is going dark (maybe its my imagination). The stomach illness that brought my most beloved down last week must have been from the neeku man he ate in the rest stop because neither my daughter nor I have been effected. Don’t let his experience stop you from trying dubious food – if you don’t try, you’ll miss the best stuff. I had food poisoning three times in Bosnia – once from an egg dish, once from spitted lamb and once from yogurt; I am not sorry I tried any of that stuff.

I know its the middle of the night here, but I can’t sleep. I don’t sleep well when my loved one is away – hence all of the entries last year while he was on his BIG business trip. I guess I’ll read awhile. I just finished an historical fiction of the life of Rudi Nureyev, the Soviet dancer who defected in the 1960’s. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone who is offended by homosexual references or obscene language. There were parts of it that were typically, depressingly Russian, as well (I kind of like those parts, but then I am used to Russians). Now, I am working on another book of essays delving into the Japanese mind – anything to help me figure out why they do the things they do and why the things I do are wrong 🙂