"In the months since Dad died, I've found myself wishing that my friends, here in this sparkly new life, had some kind of honest understanding of all the years that came before I moved here. I didn't come to Huntsville to try to fit in, and I cheerfully plan to never do so. I came here with plans to make a small piece of this town my own; to find people I could relate to; to start over if I had to; to figure out what I was supposed to do with my life."

I want you all to understand that we abuse these cats heartily, daily, and viciously. They have no recourse in their sad, pathetic little lives except to hide out in the dirty laundry.No, really. Click the photo for a larger version.

So here's your update, or your scorecard, or whatever.

I have pneumonia. Jeff has bronchitis. The hacking and wheezing is a sight to behold, but the good news is that nobody's going to the hospital—hooray! My white cell count has dropped from 18,000 to 15,000, which still isn't good, but it's an improvement and indicates I'm responding to antibiotics. Jeff's currently stands at 16,000. (Normal? 4,500-10,000 per microliter)

We are sad and pathetic, but we are sad and pathetic together, and that's what counts.

According to my doctor, I have pneumonia, a white blood cell count of 18,000, and about 50% of my normal lung capacity.I have a wheelbarrow full of drugs and a follow-up appointment tomorrow morning. If I'm not better, it's potentially hospital time for me.

Back … soon, I hope.

This weekend I was teased, and rightfully so, about the similarity between knitting and software design. There was, as Brian explained, a vast gulf of difference between something that was 'done' and something that was truly finished and out the door. In software design, 'done' means you've finished coding, and 'finished' means you've done everything that comes after: debugging and testing. In knitting, 'done' means you've finished the knitting, and 'finished' means you have completed all cleanup details, like weaving in your ends and attaching trim.

There were phone calls last night, phone calls whose contents I barely remember. I've been gradually succumbing to the crud that has eaten the immune systems of my spouse and nearby friends. What began on Tuesday as an inexplicable inability to breathe fully while working out had spawned into the feeling of having a cat permanently sitting on my chest.

Even when it wasn't actually true.