I can't stop coughing, and my dog is as plump as a polar bear.

I'm in that awful "meaningless coughing" stage of my illness, where you just cough because it's easier than breathing.

Not to dwell on my poor health, but hoooooly cow, I was sicker last week than I've been in ten years, not counting food poisoning, which I achieve yearly. I learned that all of my feel-good Frankie Muniz philosophies have a tendency to minimize when I'm ill, and I'm not above honking at people or asserting my true place in two merging lines or even saying softly, "I feel like I'm going to pass out" to the good people of Bed Bath and Beyond. Happily, the guilt associated with these acts also seems to minimize, and perhaps that is the universe paying me back for all of my excuse making for its children.

I felt physical pain throughout my entire body, even when I wasn't moving! It was horrible. And I was so excited, because I knew I was baking with fever but the nerd in me wanted to know how baking, so I bought a fancy thermometer, and then I got home and the battery was dead, dead, dead. So I resorted to self-pitiful crying, which was nice because Winston then came and licked the tears from my face, no doubt thinking, "How delicious are Mother's self-indulgent tears!"

What was my point again? Oh, anyway, I didn't know what it meant for a fever to break until mine broke, and it was terrible. But I'm much better now.

Christmas was nice. Saw the fandamily.

Home again. Winston is still in that crazy "post daycare" state of mind where he seems to be in the process of shaking off the crazies and auditioning for his spot in the household. Licks a lot. Needs tummy rubs. Fat as a fat little monkey and I'll be damned if I know how he keeps getting fatter when he's on a strict daycare diet.

That's all, I guess. I'll keep it short and sweet since I have nothing to say. I just wanted to make my mark on the blogosphere.