My Little Golden Book of Phobias

It's the day after our National Nightmare before Christmas elections. The sky and sea and leaves and grass are brilliant in the sun and I intend to go for a walk. And not think about politics and big business and corruption and greed and hatred. And lunacy. Peace reigns on my tiny patch of terra firma. Well, except for the usual cat battles. At least I didn't find any vomit on the furniture this morning although Lola climbed in with me at dawn and drooled on my arm. Drool I can deal with. Dino Rossi being a Senator I can't.

Even though I still have a dramatic cough that people back away from, I might walk for miles, with kleenix. I always wonder what 'resumption of normal activities' means. I usually overdo it and extend my illness for another week. I still can't hear out my left ear, except for a few minutes upon waking.

This Saturday is our reading. My writing group. I'm not sure I can find the location because it's a studio space on the water in Ballard, which from my house is about 437 miles from here. Not as the crows fly, but over train and light rail tracks, by the sporting arenas, and over the hills and through the woods to grandmother's house we go. So. And then there is the ticklish cough that signals the end of a cold when you try to suppress it and your eyes water and you eventually have to leave the room to hawk and spit. Not pretty but there it is. I'll be sucking lozenges and reading, attempting to be intelligible with a candy in my mouth. Although I have NEW BOOTS. From Ross. They were very cheap and they're not made of animal hide. My mother used to tell me I looked 'cheap' so I've been going for it ever since. Reverse psychology, right?

I figure no one will be able to understand what I'm saying while I read but they'll be looking at my boots and thinking, 'How does she pull it off, that classy look?' Shoes really do make the woman and I'm not saying that because I have purple Danskos with French writing all over them. It's just simply true.