If ever I have children, I will teach them to never make their beds. I got over a stomach bug only to get the dreaded summer cold only to get a sore throat and bed bugs. Upon informing my landlords, one of whom is an entomologist, we caught one of these accursed creatures to have its identity verified. My mattress, etc., has been hoovered within an inch of its life and I am borrowing a set of very pink sheets because all of mine are in the wash.
Which leads me to my next point: the only thing to do with said sheets, once they are out of the washer, is to hang them outside. With a forecast of rain. Yet another reason this country needs to recognize that tumble dryers are the way of the future.
Meanwhile, my throat hurts and I look like I thought dancing with mosquitoes, or sleeping in a fire ant hill, was a brilliant idea. I’m tired and everything else right now is at an impasse—I do not need a break so much as a breakthrough.
At least I survived the first one hundred pages of The Name of the Rose. Maybe now my penance is complete and God will forgive me for laughing in church.