From The Middle of A Down-Comforter Desert

Not much going on. Thanksgiving was a nice time with visits to family on both sides. Maybe some pictures to come.

Now, for some pity party:

I came down with the Mack truck of colds, which ran me over, taking my voice with it, and has left me coughing and blowing my nose, smeared down the highway of life. I am at home languishing in a Queen-sized desert amid dunes of down.

Earlier, I woke from a dream:

I was housesitting at a nice suburban house, and all the neighbors and their teen kids started breaking in. I called 911 and waited and waited and WAITED, trying to keep the perpetrators at bay in the house under some sort of citizens arrest. The adults left, acting like they were just checking on the house, not trying to steal things, and the remaining teens were goofing around, acting up in a good-natured way; they didn't seem to care about getting in trouble. After FOUR HOURS of waiting, I finally called the police back and in my squeaky, hoarse voice (which somehow made the journey from real life to dreamland) let loose on the dispatcher with how frustrated I was that the police hadn't shown up yet. But in my anger, my almost unintelligble voice started to wane and give out like an old Sharpie, until I was only able to make barely audible squeaks, and, frustrated with tears in my eyes, I tossed the phone to the floor in a motion that continued as I woke in real life, on my stomach, looking at my outstretched arm swinging across the bed.

And no, I haven't taken any cold medicine.