Well, technically here at the House of England, you're never alone. There's always something furry or feathered about.
Just after lunch today I started to feel sick to my stomach. Not the vomity kind of sick, but the real, painfully pervasive, I-can't-stand-up-straight-because-it-hurts sick to my stomach. After running through a few things with a coworker, I went home to dive into my flannel pajama pants and a T-shirt.
Still, I have no idea what I ate or did that would do this to me. I'm still very much in an blerg-y state, and have only been able to eat two pieces of wheat toast and half of a Sprite Zero, totally uncharacteristic for me. Another bummer, I haven't been to yoga this week. I miss my yoga.
Dave is out at the Tom Petty show tonight with our neighbor friends and one of his buddies. So it's me and the furs. As I look around, I realize what awful pet parents we are.
First, there is the state of Hornsby's bed. It is far beyond just unmade:
Then there is the fact that the two of our chickens have fowl pox. I'm sure they'll be fine, and in Texas, it's kind of unavoidable with all of the mosquitoes, but that doesn't make me feel any better for my birds.
And to top it off, Mr. Orange still hasn't learned how to put a wristwatch on properly.
Dawsey, though, thinks I'm just being silly. Here she's telling me that worrying is futile, just take a nap by the window and shut up, you crazy wench.