Repeat after me: I will not whine. I will not whine. I will not whine. I will not whine.

Since the wondergeeks invited me over to watch Dune and try to eat some soup, I thought I'd take them up on the offer. The movie was excellent—this miniseries looks like it will be miles better than the previous attempt to bring Frank Herbert's novel to the screen—but I think it would've been better for me if I could've managed to keep down some of the soup they fed me.

It was good soup. I love Heather's potato-and-leek soup. It's comfort food. But not tonight. I tried soup, water crackers, and 7-Up. I managed to keep everything down for about twenty minutes, and then it all came back up again. Vomiting has to be one of the nastiest things we humans can do in this life. I hate every part of it, but the smell most of all. My sense of smell is one of the things I prize most about myself. While not the greatest or sharpest (otherwise I'd be making a good living as a wine taster) it serves me well in both life and cooking. But it has downsides—I have trouble with some highly scented objects and people. If I'm feeling the tiniest bit sick, it's difficult for me to go to a grocery store without running out, clutching my stomach, and praying for mercy.

Today I got nauseous at the smell of food—any food. But I ate the soup; it tasted warm and comforting once I got past the smell. I'm guessing that I'm probably not going to be able to keep much down until my fever goes down. For most of the day I've been fluctuating between 99.4°F and 100.1°F; it shouldn't be enough to make me this sensitive to food and smells, but evidently it is.

Edmund seems to know that something's wrong. He's very clingy and keeps wanting to cuddle. I'm wondering if we have any Gatorade in the house, and if maybe I should think about taking a shortened workday tomorrow. For now, I'm very cold; shivering, in fact. I think I'm going to huddle under some blankets and try to get some sleep.