I'm sick and not a little bit tired. I feel un-attractive, un-funny, un-wifely, un-momly, and especially as I'm trying desperately to come up with something to post about, un-creative.
I have the aches, a sore throat, a headache, stuffy nose, alternating periods of extreme sleepiness with insomnia, aaaaand pink eye. That's right, I now have pink eye. I get all the good stuff. A few days ago, Tyler asked me if I thought his eye looked red. Coming from him, this is a silly question because his eye is always red. On account of the bionacle.
He has an irregular astigmatism and keratoconus, just in one eye, which means he has to wear a combination soft/hard contact. The bionacle. It irritates his eye, so it's often red and angry.
I woke up this morning and my eye was gooed shut. He told me that this happened to him too, but his went away. Mine did not go away, it got worse. I told myself that I'd go to the doctors tomorrow, but around dinner-time, I got desperate and put neosporin in my eye. Which goes against the warning on the label, but my mom assured me that 1. the doctor would just give me neosporin drops and 2. she put neosporin directly in my brother's eyes as per doctor's orders when some bug spray exploded in his face and burned his eyes. So, I'm fairly sure I'm not going to go blind.
A n y w a y.
The only thing that happened to me today, besides being sick, was that I finished a book which was by no means the next Great American Novel. It was the literary equivalent of comfort food and it did not end the way I wanted. I feel betrayed. I read this thing for a predictable happily ever after, and I feel like I got cheated.
I'm the first to admit that I don't really read to be enlightened. I don't read to become smarter. I don't read so that I can have witty things to say to my friends. (Friend?) A lot of what I read, I read to escape. To have a little moment of silly fun before I have to fold the next batch of laundry. I try to tempter this tendency and read serious books from time to time, but mostly I don't.
The book was Shannon Hale's The Actor and the Housewife, and I guess it had some brand of it's own HEA, but this is Shannon Hale- authoress of the Extremely-Mega-Happy-Scooby-Doo HEA, which is what I was expecting, and didn't get.
You've won this round Shannon. I'll still probably read your next book, but don't think that I'm going to forget this.