Sicky.

I'm in that state of unwellness in which I know I'll lose my sense of smell and taste within 24 hours. It's coming on, in other words. I don't think I've had a raging cold in a very long time, so I suppose I'm overdue.

Proud to say that I dragged myself out of bed and away from the vortex of comfort that is the bed-hounds (furnacle mode soundly engaged with this recent cold snap) and put my carcass through a shower. I now am wearing clothing that I could reasonably wear in public without shame, where an entire weekend in pajamas would have been justified. Aren't you proud of me?  After dressing, I pulled on a pair of wool socks and paused for a moment as my furry house shoes beckoned tantalizingly from the side of the bathtub where I'd stepped out of them just before my shower. I opted for a pair of clogs instead, and I'm feeling that my day's work has been achieved. I could switch back to the house shoes at any moment. At least I made a running leap at pretending to be a civilized human for today.

Since I am unwell, I have some piddling things to do around the house, and some writing to do, so maybe I can get something accomplished slightly beyond getting cleaned up and dressed.

About a year ago, I splurged $5 on a tatty old swivel/rocker chair from a yard sale. It's probably 60s or 70s vintage, but it sits very low, and I've discovered it's ideal for not-quite-loungey sitting when I'm messing with my laptop at the coffee table. The real feature with this chair is the way it is shaped and its low profile, because the pups can climb up the chair and encircle my butt. They are sort of like a furry tutu encircling my posterior, and everyone wins. They get to maximize warmth and contact with mommy, and I get to write without Chuy trying to sell me on the fiction that he is a cat and should be between me and my keyboard.

Now, for coffee!