Remember the veggies from yesterday?

[Which reminds me of the French saying, Où sont les neiges d’antan?] You will have to imagine the proper accent over the u in Où, because I don’t have time to hunt one up in Word. Literally, where are the snows of long ago? (Où with the proper accent means “where”; ou without it means “or”. And I just realized that in the time it has taken to explain that, I could have gone into Word and found the stupid symbol and inserted it. So I did. And I have put it into my generic draft template so that I won't have to put y’all through this again.) Translations: What’s done is done; you can’t go home again [and thank you, Thomas Hardy Wolfe, not to be confused with Tom Wolfe of the white suits]; the fat lady has sung.

Where was I? Oh yeah. Veggies. The ones I nuked for breakfast and then forgot about and had to throw into the fridge. They were waiting patiently for me when I got home last night. So I put six of those wonderful little frozen meatballs into a bowl and nuked them for a minute, then buried them under half of the veggies and nuked for another minute. Woohoo! A two-minute meal for the one-minute manager. Bliss in a bowl. Accompanied by a couple slices of toast.

I am having more of the same for breakfast. Well, maybe not the toast. And I am contemplating a mug of milk, because my head is suspiciously clear, and I am barely coughing. The thing I hate about having an episode of congestion, whether allergic or contagious, is that I really have to gear down on the milk intake if I want to be done with the misery sooner, rather than later.

It is such a lovely, simple blessing to be able to taste things. Well, probably not as simple as I think, the human body being as intricate as it is, but definitely lovely. Potatoes that taste like potatoes; green beans that are fresh and crisp; rosemary infusing the sauce. Mystery-meat-balls, always a little too salty, but they turn a bowl of veggies or pasta into a meal.

The foot medicine seems to be doing its thing. I was a little dismayed yesterday morning to open the bag with the new prescription and find salve instead of powder, because dryness goes a long way toward killing off the athlete’s foot beastie. On the other hand, it is easier to get salve everywhere it needs to go, rather than aiming a shaker at the offending spot and hoping for the best. And I am being rigorous (thus far) in dosing my foot three times a day.

If you want to know where I am at 6:00am, 2:00pm, and 10:00pm, you will find me perched in the loo with my socks off, slathering. Leave a message.

Though I am half an hour late this morning, and I need to get going, because I am picking up my secretary in about an hour, so that we can be in our seats 15 minutes early for a 9:00 meeting that does not take place in our local chapel.

I have no idea what I will be wearing; my first priority is finding clean socks and unmentionables in the pile, and then making myself presentable. I am hoping that we are not meeting in the chapel, because I know I do not have any clean pantyhose, and there isn’t time to run to the store for them (I’ve been a little busy coughing up lungs this week). I may do a long skirt with socks, or I may just brazenly flaunt convention and wear slacks. [This is an aspect of LDS culture that I simply do not get, though I comply. Why are skirts in a chapel reverent, and nice slacks (I am not talking worn blue jeans) not? I do not mean for sacrament meeting; I mean how some people spazz if you simply walk through the back of the chapel and your legs are ensconced in two tubes instead of one.]

Milk. I am going to get some milk, and then I am going to get going. And, I fear, this afternoon I am going to be doing laundry, unless the Good Housekeeping Fairy shows up here while I am in leadership training.