I've managed to get myself a cold. It's making my head fuzzy muddled, blocking my ears (and I'm already hearing compromised), and stuffing my nose so that when I lie down at night I water ski over the surface of a really restful, deep sleep, drooling copiously. Meanwhile, the weather here continues to be scathingly hot, the kind of heat that prickles on top of your skin and presses you down into your chair, a wet, smelly mess.
I'm paranoid about the cold. I don't want to get a cough. Then everyone will know that I'm sick, and will look at me as a sick American, a walking germ box, and flutter away from me with horror in their eyes. They may even want me (shiver) to stay home and "take care of myself." I hope this cold doesn't linger.
To that end, I'm drinking lots of liquids, including orange juice, and I've managed to drain our big jug of filtered water in the apartment. I want to flush this thing out of my system. I want to bomb myself with vitamin C.
Yesterday, Lizzie and I went with Cynch to the Trinoma mall (I'm starting to think of that as "our" mall) and, among other things, ate pancakes for lunch, watched Ice Age 3 (Cynch left us off and ran errands while we reclined in the luxurious big screened airconditioned darkness), and shopped for groceries in a massive supermarket sized store.
Along the way, we reloaded with a bunch of DVDs (we've finished, sadly, the two seasons of Buffy that I brought along with us), including the BBC collection of Jane Austen movies (Pride and Prejudice with Colin Firth, yum; Mansfield Park; Emma) and Season 1 of Heroes. That should tide us over for a few weeks. Right now, we're working our way through the British (original) Office.
Now that I've fully described our boob tube affliction, I'm going to sign off before, for some unknown reason, I lose this connection.