My head is like a football, I think I'm gonna die

It's not from a hangover, far from it, but there don't seem to be any songs written about plain old being sick.

That's my Throwdown Chicken Soup over there, made on Sunday night and inspired by my new hero, Bobby Flay. My mother, whose 1970s soup pot I still use, would have loved him.

The last two weeks I've been spending most of my time at home, writing, with the TV on in the background for inspiration and company, and I've become a fan of the Food Network. Not, you understand, because I like to cook, but because I like to watch other people cook. Especially Bobby Flay.

This cough and cold, and, as of last night, earache, were acquired, if I had to guess, from Jack, the night we went to see Chris Isaak at the Mountain Winery, and if you can imagine a more romantic setting in which to hear perform a man who makes women's knees turn to jelly, I'd like to hear about it, Gentle Reader. It was a fabulous evening, or would have been, had Jack not been sick. He'd been coughing at me over the phone for a couple of days before the concert, and I'd been working on a plan B to sell the tickets on Craigslist but he insisted he was well enough to make the trip. He wasn't, really, but he did it anyway.

Jack's recovered from his cold by now, I suppose. We're not exactly speaking these days, I explained to Ace the other day, because he asked, and then I added: and by the way I want to rip his head off and stuff it down his throat.

So today I'm staying in my jammies and I'm watching All My Children, something I haven't done since around the time that Maria was Edmund's wife, not a DNA expert on CSI: Miami. Can I tell you how much I love that Jack and Erica are married? Gosh, I love Jack. I've always loved Jack.

This Jack. The character on All My Children.

Sheesh.

Next, Postmodern Sass rides the bus and overhears a conversation.