Today should prove interesting, to say the least.  I have a pounding headache and I am not entirely sure how to treat it; its cause could be myriad factors.  It is either the cold I have been suffering or the alcohol I consumed or the volume of the music from the party or the unfortunate meeting between my head and a solid object.  When Clarice asked me how I was faring this morning, all I could think of is if I am lucky, I’ll die.

One thing I thought my tenuous immortality might bring me is the opportunity to live illness free.  Such is not the case.  Since the disappearance of the Sophie Tiara, my awake life has taken on a few mortal qualities I would rather do without, like this cold for one.  What began as a little tickle in my throat crawled inside my forehead and insists on sitting there like a bitter fog.  I am not one to allow myself to be sick for too long; when I spend the day in bed there had better be something more enticing than my little Moufette with his terrible breath to keep me company.  So after a day of unproductive bed rest, I addressed the problem head-on (if you will allow me the pun.)

I had Chef gather an assortment of citrus and fragrant herbs and boil them in water so as to steam out the plague.  I suppose this might have worked had I the patience to put my delicate face over a steaming bouquet garni for any amount of time.  That did little more than annoy me while making me smell as though I was ready for basting and placed back in the oven.  I allowed my Swedish physical therapist to contort me into a variety of uncomfortable positions assuring me that this would “drain me.”  Naomi de Plume does not “drain,” darlings; and the implication that she does is enough to get you packed up and sent back to Hagersten.  Opie sent his Zen herbalist over who said I needed to realign my chakras to unblock the circulation of positive energy within my aura.  I didn’t even bother to ask what the hell that meant.

Finally I decided to take matters into my own hands, cure myself the old-fashioned way, the way we did things back in the 1910s – I poured myself a belt.  My mother kept colds at bay by filling my baby bottles with Hot Toddies; why go against history?  The heat soothed me stem to stern, the whiskey went straight to my head and battled victoriously whatever had taken up residence in my frontal lobe and I was, finally, at peace.  By the bottom of the first glass I felt so much better I poured myself another.  By the bottom of the second glass, I felt downright good; so good, in fact, I gave Opie a call to see what he was up to (an adjacent boy-toy is ever-so convenient.)  He toddled over with some of his fabulous friends and we all had another round of Toddies as a preventative measure.  At some point, boiling the water became too cumbersome a task and we simply threw back the whisky without accompaniment.  Because the pretense of this impromptu soiree was nursing ourselves back to health, a few medical references lead to innuendo and possibly some ill-advised role playing.  One of Opie’s obviously hearing-impaired friends got to the phonograph and turned up the volume to window-shattering decibels.  The music led to clearing the floor of furniture and a dance contest, which I believe I may have won; I clearly won something based on the bizarre diadem made out of and table linens and Moufette’s diamond collar I woke up wearing.

At some point an argument broke out which led to my being injured.  Oh, no – nothing that severe; I grabbed Opie and one of the others for stability, which they misunderstood as an invitation.  Since they were willing and I was feeling no pain (I don’t believe I was able to feel anything at that point, I had so properly anesthetized myself on whiskey,) I figured why not?  Those two argued over who was to go first and I laughed uproariously at the thought that either of them had a say in the matter.  In my fit of laughter, I turned too abruptly and plowed my head into my bedroom suite’s door.  I have no idea what happened after that.

All I know is now Opie is ringing me up and telling me it is my turn to nurse him back to health since he has come down the an unexpected case of the “something.”  You must be joking, darling; Naomi de Plume does not nurse anything save for a 100-year-old brandy.

My point is, darlings, when searching for the antidote, take care it does not worsen the malady.


 , ,