The Gods Must be Huffy

Looks like the library conference gods bestowed upon me retribution for my less-than-flattering comments by making me sicker than Ben Affleck after an all-week bender at a strip club. Right after strapping into my seat for take-off from Albuquerque, I noticed a ever-so-slight tickle in the back of my throat. By the time I hit Portland, my throat was so raw, not even my favorite pho couldn’t assuage the pain. I have no idea how I got this–maybe the maid at the hotel exacted her revenge on me for not tipping her one day? However I got it, I now have a jim-dandy case of laryngitis. My husband, however, is loving every second of silence.


If I don’t get any better by the end of the weekend, I will be forced to make an offering to the aforementioned gods by building in my front yard a pyre of ALA Read t-shirts and back issues of Library Journal, topping it with my gasoline-soaked conference badge and setting the sucker aflame.

Moral of the story? Hide your toothbrush very carefully in Orlando this summer….

What I’m Reading (between fits of nose-blowing): Lucia in London by E.F. Benson. I can never get enough of Lucia & Company.

What I’m Listening to: Second Avenue by Tim Moore. I’ll admit it: deep down inside, I’m still wearing my bear-traps and puka shells, my hair cut into a Captain and Tennille-esque bob. My long-standing affection for this song provides the sordid proof.

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