Head full of stuffing. When I lie down on my left side, after a while, I start making a weird wheezy sound when I breathe.

That’s probably OK, though, right?

Decision I have to make in the next hour: Do I have enough clean laundry and will power to make a public appearance at 11 a.m. in Oak Park? My gut (and lack of clean laundry) tells me no.

It’s a Sisters in Crime meeting. Sisters in Crime is an organization for women crime writers. Maybe that encompasses mystery? It’s the sort of thing you figure out if you go to a meeting, and I’ve never gone. No time like the present, right? Except for (see above) lack of pants and wheezy sound.

Might have to give this one a pass.

Watched the O’Lympics last night. I love the Olympics and I can hardly explain it to you, since my life has hardly intersected with sports at all. The stories. Damn those heartfelt, triumph-of-the-will backstories! It’s the same reason why I like sports movies. Rudy, etc. (Well. I like that one for another reason. Goonies-love.) I’m a total sap for movies with characters that scale mountainous adversity, especially in sporty-Spice ways that do not match up with my own slothfulness.

Also: dance movies. Hey, I like to dance.

So anyway, the Olympics. I was bored, Canada. It was a little too self-reverential, awe-struck, and earnest for my tastes. The tap-stomping was kinda fun (see above, re: dance movies) but didn’t you keep thinking “Do they do that in Canada? And what’s with all the plaid?” You did so. Everybody did. They trotted out some people I like. Sarah Maclachlan, check. kd lang, check. I lurve kd lang, and she rocked that song. And next to Bryan Adams (what?!) and Nelly Furtado (why?!), she both deserved to be a Canadian called out (she did a whole album of Canadian songs; she’s Canadian-proud) and did not embarrass herself. Except maybe by being barefoot.

I could listen to kd lang sing just about anything. Even that dreadful Olympics hymn. Ach.

Today I think I would like to read a book. Doesn’t that sound good? Book, tea, couch, afghan, pillow, nap. Oh, wait. That turned into something else. Something I can totally live with, though. You know you’re sick when you want to take a nap and it’s not yet 9:30 a.m.