I have had a crushing headache for three days. I don't get these very often, but when I do get them they are often debilitating. This one started in my neck on the right side, clawed its way up my face, settled behind my eye for awhile, then crawled over the top of my head to the left side. I left work in early afternoon, my face so sore it felt as though I'd been punched.
But life doesn't stop for a headache.
I slept all afternoon, and then this evening we put up the Christmas tree--not to decorate yet, just to get it upright and see if it's going to fall over. (Which it did last year.)
Boscoe continues to do well on the ramp training, though we're not yet ready to take it to the next level. He will only walk on the ramp if I walk on it, too--backwards, holding a treat in front of me. Then he'll follow. Clearly that's not going to be an option once we hook it up to the Jeep. So the training continues. I am running low on Charlee Bears.
At work I have been asked to write an essay on the meaning of Christmas. Sure! I said, thrilled to be asked. I have made my living writing and editing for, oh, 30 years or so, and yet even after all those years I am still surprised and delighted when someone asks me to write something.
The meaning of Christmas.
What have I gotten myself into?
And, finally, our old pal P.M. Miller has given me about five pounds of letters that I wrote her back in the late 1980s and early 1990s. They're proving very useful for filling in gaps and details in "Hack," though they're also rather painful to read because, of course, I was an idiot in many ways back then and all the idiotic stuff is flooding back.
I read bits out loud to Doug, like this one: "I have just finished a fascinating biography of Rasputin, and now I'm reading about Nicholas II."
And Doug laughs and laughs. "You were such a nerd," he says.
I'm not sure that "were" is the right verb here.