Yesterday, I felt worse than I have in years. I’m blaming something I ate; the unfortunate part is that all I had the day before were home-cooked meals, so if I got food poisoning, I did it to myself. I like the idea of food poisoning much better when I can cast the blame elsewhere. Then again, Jason ate everything I did and was fine, so…?

I don’t know about you, but when I feel cruddy, one of my go-to home remedies is to take a hot bath. Usually, I’ll try to keep my hair out of the water, but inevitably some will get wet and turn into an unattractive snarled curlfro. Then, I put on a well-loved pair of comfortable sweatpants, as evidenced by the paint stains and the hole in the crotch, turn off all the lights, and curl up under a blanket in front of the TV and moan. There is nothing wrong with this ritual, and I challenge you to tell me otherwise.

However, what I didn’t expect was that yesterday the mailman would bring all of the mail up to the front door, including a giant box of candy for a party I’m throwing in a few weeks. I had to go and get the door in order to stop the dog’s “Oh god! Stranger danger!” barking frenzy…so there I was. A complete wreck, with greasy hair up top and a tangled, curly, matted mess below, a tank top, a nasty chipped manicure, sweatpants stained with craft goo and a hole in an indecent area, skin pale, sweaty and clammy, reaching outside and sweeping my box full of candy into my dark hovel like some sort of candy troll. I’m sure that looked GREAT. You caught me, mailman. I’m mainlining cinnamon bears, and I’ve been going through withdrawals, so that is why I look like crap.