West Nile Ain't Just A River in Egypt

C'est moi. Back among the living. I fought the West Nile and the West Nile...LOST! I was at Death's door--well, OK, more like in the lobby of Death's apartment building, if Death were living in the building's 35th-floor penthouse apartment--and I survived. I am hypochondriac, hear me whimper!

(Yes, I know, I have to stop insisting I had West Nile. Except, really, I don't. Because no one can prove me wrong. And besides, for all you know, I DID have West Nile. Haha!)

(And yes, I know, I have to stop mangling 70s song lyrics, too. Trust me, it hurts me just as much as it hurts you.)

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It seems that the FXor is already doing something. That, or the endorphin rush from surviving West Nile (hee!) is lifting my spirits. Because my friend Deb spent the bulk of Em's birthday party yesterday (a rousing success, per the kiddie reports I've since received) repeating over and over to me just how much BETTER I looked, and not just physically, nosiree, mentally too, really, soooooo much better, it's just amazing...leading me to wonder just how close to the edge I really got this time 'round, but that's a different post. And then today on the phone my mother suddenly said, "You sound so much calmer...Calmer than you've sounded in months, really..." and when I told her I was on a new drug (she's been dealing with gall stones and an impending gall bladder surgery this past week, so I never got to tell her about my new drug regimen) she immediately said, "Oh my goodness, it's so obvious. You were so speeded up on the Zloft lately..."

So beside for the annoying headache currently centered behind my left temple, I'd have to say that so far, FXor is a rousing success. Not that I feel it. But the recovering crazy person is always the last to know, I guess...

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And, finally, a birthday party funny. I'll set the scene: It's a hot day. One of Em's presents was a little pink, plastic Hello Kitty fan, which she immediately began carrying around the house. At one point she walks into the family room where all the grownups are sitting, fanning herself, surrounded by about six of her friends, with her 9-year-old (male) friend in the middle of the group, pleading with her: "Aw, c'mon Em, blow me. Just a little. Blow me just a little, pleeeeease!" Which led immediately to a chorus of young voices saying, "No, blow me Em! Blow me!" "Em, blow me next, OK?" "But Em, I want you to blow me!"

Really, there are no words. And, in fact, there were no words. But there was a lot of laughter.

Gotta love them kids, no?