Steamed

Frankly, I'm steamed. It's just after 7:00 a.m. here. I've been awake since about five o'clock and up since about six o'clock. Since I'm much more of an owl than a lark, I'm not exactly ecstatic over this development. You might ask why I was up so early (probably not because you no doubt don't give a fig), so let me 'splain, Lucy.

Remember me posting photos to the effect that I was feeling like the cat's ass (yes, same meaning as cat's whiskers or cat's pyjamas)? Well, as it turns out that I was being prematurely optimistic. Oh, I'm no longer as sick as the proverbial flee-bitten hound in the bayou, but I have never completely recovered from whatever it was that was ailing me a few weeks ago. During one recent night, for example, I sweat through four shirts (actually three as I managed to keep the fourth one dry). Last night, I only went through three shirts, but my nocturnal woes didn't end there, for my next episode involved heat without sweating. I discovered that to be even a less appealing state of being because it doesn't quit. When I sweat, I wake up, change shirts and go back to sleep, but, when I was simply steamin' last night, I tossed, turned, roamed, and changed beds before eventually giving up and getting up.

This kind of nonsense has been going on for weeks now, ever since the plague struck me down. Night sweats are not unfamiliar to me, but they usually have their way with me for just a few nights before returning to wherever it is that they came from. Not this time; it's been going on for weeks.

The Redoubtable Cupster and I thought we might go out dancing last night. We haven't done that for quite some time, but after uncharacteristically drenching my shirt at line dancing the other night and not feeling generally peppy anyway, I begged off. I mean to say, what pretty lady yearns to cling to a sweat-drenched dotard on the dance floor? Note: if you think of one, please email me.

So, we stayed home and I learned some good news. I checked Amazon to track my recent order and discovered that it had been sitting in my mail box since noon. Said order included a CD. New music; how nice. But you see, I normally rip CDs and listen to them on my iPod. But wouldn't you know it: this one is copy protected and won't let me do that. I understand why artists desire to protect their work, but frankly, I'm steamed – both figuratively and literally it seems.