I knew it as I dressed this morning: a telltale, blurry line of pale on paler. It was a demarcation of freckles next to the barest whisper of what could only be described as a suntan. It's not much, mind you; a 'tan' on a strawberry blonde can only be described as the barest blush of color on cream, but it is there, nevertheless.

This afternoon I came home with a sunburn, my skin smelling faintly of chlorine underneath the sunscreen tang.

You see, there's cute, and then there's a six-year-old learning to swim while wearing a shark mask and fins.

Better. Much better.

My white cell count has dropped to 8,000, which is back down to within normal ranges. My chest x-rays are much clearer than they were last week, and my sounds & volume are much better than they were before. We did one last breathing treatment with albuterol, and he instructed me to go home and rest.

The strength of the antibiotic I'm on right now is causing … uh … issues, but this was anticipated. I don't have to return for another follow-up treatment unless I am still wheezing by Thursday.

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.

Two cats, one brain.  Click on the photo to get a larger version:

Usually we can tell which one of the brothers Fang possesses the brain at any given moment by his exhibition of intelligent behavior.  Whichever cat is awake generally has the brain.  Notable exception:  when Edmund wanders around the house yelling his kitty arias at the top of his lungs because Tenzing didn't want to play with him, dammit.

The squeak of bedsprings told me Jeff was shifting about for a more comfortable reading spot on the master bed. Their familiar squeal is one of the few sounds that transmit reliably through the walls of our house; from my blanket-wrapped perch in the reading room I could tell what was going on without question or movement.

When I dropped it in, the spoon clinked against the glass. Another cup of Saturday tea, chestnut and opaque from half-and-half and sweetener, sacrificed to the literary gods. Naptime, perhaps. Tired.

hEll0 wOr1d. Remember me?

Yeah, you. Hey, thanks for the painkillers and this wacky hole in my jaw. I survived anyway, despite your best efforts. Neener. I even had vegetables tonight - you know, those colorful crunchy things you chew? They rock my little blue planet. I was considering starting a peasant revolt if there was to be more soup.