What? Oh, hi.

I don't know, I just woke up with this crappy headache. I'm going to start each blog post in the middle of a conversation, I hope you don't mind. So I imagine that we've been chatting for a few minutes now and you finally just blurt out, is something wrong or do you hate me? And then I say, etc. Bad headache. As if any headache can be good? I guess the headache that tells you you're alive. Like, you wake up in the hospital, filled with tubes, and your head is pounding, and you're all, I can feel my head! Jubilee! You use "jubilee" as an exclamation, did I mention? If you didn't before, now you do. Come on, try it. It will make you happy! Jubilee!

I have the kind of headache that screams you need coffee, friend, but I've now enjoyed far more coffee than a hothouse flower such as myself should ever enjoy, so I'm trembling and my head is still pounding. I don't know, I don't even know why I'm mentioning the headache. It's probably allergies. That's my mom's answer to everything. Did I ever tell you about the time I developed severe vertigo? One day I was in my apartment, sorting through the mail—I think this was, oh, six years ago—and WHAM the entire room tipped over, and BOOM I was on the ground, and FLIMFLAMAROO I was then okay but wondering if rooms are supposed to tip over like that. Then it started happening every twenty minutes or so, this normal normal normal BAM normal vertigo attack, and it was no good at all. My doctor sent me to another doctor who screamed ANEURYSM! EMERGENCY! And Scott and I were screaming and crying all the way to the emergency room, but of course it wasn't that, and then the neurologist said MS! YOU HAVE MS! And we wept and rent our garments, but nope, it wasn't that, and all along my mom is calling me and insisting, allergies, I know it's allergies, in her Long Island-by-way-of-Astoria accent, ALL-UH-GIES, and OH it made me mad. Allergies, she says, when I am clearly nearing death! Then the weeks passed and the vertigo went away and I stopped thinking about it until exactly one year later, when it hit me again. At the beginning of autumn. And I went for more tests. Final diagnosis: allergies. Damn it all to hell.

I was going to write about something else, but I am both sped up and foggy, kind of like I imagine Izzy is, all the time. What's this? Whatever it is, I will kill it. And—POUNCE! Oh, my poor dog. I will write more about cat/dog relations some other time, so you non-pet-loving people can skip over that entire post. But my poor dog is not happy with this kitten. I am betting on her calming down with age, but for all I know she will just gather more strength and more energy until she is able to tear him apart with the force of her mind. I always wanted a telekinetic cat, sure, who doesn't? but not at this price, dear God, no.

Hey, it's our eighth wedding anniversary today! Which makes it especially wonderful that I woke up growling my goddamn head is killing me can you quit it with the goddamn whistling? He would marry me all over again, if he had the chance. Seriously, though, if you're not married but want to know what to look for in a spouse, I will lend you Scott for a day or two. All right, that's creepy, so I'll just tell you why he's excellent marriage material. First of all, he wakes up with Henry, allowing me extra sleeping-in time. I'm almost embarrassed to add that he brings a cup of coffee to me each morning, too, but there, I just did. And on the weekends, he makes pancakes, baby, and the pancakes are delicious. So the whole morning-routine thing alone makes Scott a man worth marrying. And he's scarily funny. This weekend alone, at several different times, he had me laughing so hard I got a little frightened that I might not be able to stop. Ah, that heady combination of giddiness and terror—you can't beat that. So marry Scott today! Oops, too late. Hands off, ladies. You too, men.