I have the hiccups.

I have hiccups like Gladys Knight can sing. I have hiccups like Einstein was smart. If having hiccups were an Olympic event, I would capture the gold, the silver, and the bronze, simultaneously, and then sprain something while trying to keep an appendage on each representative section of the stand.

Any of my gentle readers who are male, might find this a good time to go take out the garbage, or floss the cat’s teeth.

Once I had the hiccups while standing on the corner in downtown Boise, waiting for the light to change. This was decades before gravity had its way with my body. Guys have excellent peripheral vision. Know how I know this? Helen of Troy may have had the face that launched a thousand ships, but I had the hiccups that nearly launched a thousand fender-benders. And untold cases of neck strain.

OK, guys, you can come back now.

Beloved is way tired, and moving a lot like Grandpa McCoy if you’re old enough to remember that show. I’m not mocking, because he’s not the only one chez Ravelled to have that quintessential hitch in the gitalong. Stabilize, then mobilize, is the phrase I brought back from his family reunion. It’s a good motto to live by. Especially if you’re no longer 25.

He had a good day today and is feeling much better than yesterday, which means he is feeling light years better than he did most of Saturday.

Dinner tonight was tortellini Alfredo and garlic bread. This makes twice this week that I have been in the kitchen as something other than comic relief or chief bottle washer. We probably ought to call the Guinness people.

It is late. Dinner has nearly settled to the point where it is safe for me to go to bed. (I got a manicure after work, so we didn’t eat until after 8:00, and I have no wish to go three rounds with the Reflux Fairy tonight.) I am shutting down the popsicle stand, turning out the light, and heading to the living room for one last round on my sweater.

Night, y’all. [We are down to 442 stitches on the sweater yoke, but who’s counting?]