I Claim Thee, Mancold.

Hello everyone. I have a mancold. In the final stages of my fever blister, I'd been feeling hopeful, if a little run down and pleasantly delirious. I'd been avoiding re-booking date #3 until I could be sure there was no trace of contagion upon my face. Now I have a nose which alternately stuffs and runs, a bit of a scratchy throat and general malaise.

I'm throwing myself into the spirit of the thing, and claiming the Mancold as my own. I bleat most pathetically and stubbornly. I eat chocolate cake out of sheer spite for myself. I had a bath this evening in which I dumped a shot of Vick's VapoSteam, and now feel like a greasy lozenge. Playing the invalid is perversely fun, if mainly for my own benefit.

I'm dosing myself with rented movies, and have seen many good ones; even the iffy ones have been interesting. And of course, I love watching trailers. Have you ever rented a movie with someone who skipped the trailers? Or who wanted to go late to a movie theatre to miss them? So shocking, it's like skipping adolescence. It disrupts the natural order. Even the bad trailers--no, especially the bad trailers--are incredible. The Voice, for one thing, that one dude who does all the trailers. Ah hello, my old friend...

Last night I watched "Away We Go", which was good. It's rare to see 30-something couples portrayed with humour and realism and affection, and who don't have all their shit together, not by a long shot. Makes me feel in the company of misfits, albeit fictional ones.

This is a very dull post, as it's been a dull week, full of tedious things like car trouble and aggravated finances and laundromats and cleaning kitchen cupboards. (Old pans, I resolve to recycle thee! I'm claiming "Thee" as well, apparently.)

My Valentine's was unlovely, I was in full scab mode and perhaps chose unwisely in watching Ashley Judd succumb to suicidal paranoia in "Bug". Jeez. I got a V-Day email from my lover, but even that I couldn't really enjoy, as it came late in the day and with the whiff of duty versus inspiration. Better than nothing, though, that I do recognize.

It is testament to my boredom that I took a bath tonight. Frankly, I usually only do this if I am truly cold or filthy, and can have a nice glass of wine and an interesting chat to keep me from feeling like I'm making soup with myself. I used to have a ritual with the ex, who loved baths. I would always join him in the bathroom, sitting fully clothed on the covered toilet reading the paper, bantering, just keeping him company. Funny the things you miss.

Maybe instead of looking for the One, I should look for Ones that suit certain rooms in my house. The x would be my bathroom boy; my lover could take up residence in the bedroom, a date or two could hang out in my kitchen or living room. And a psychoanalyst in my crawlspace to complete me.

On that note, snuffle and good night. As I am almost completely healed, I intend to have a mildly romantic weekend which is sure to lift my spirits.

Adieu, G