The Fella Is Sick, I Am Driving, Tisha B'Av Is Over, Target is Evil

The fella is sick, he's got what I had. Question from him: "How many times did you want to stab your own eardrums out?" I am feeding him Campbell's Vegetable Beef soup, and lots of tea. He is very miserable.

Yesterday, he slept most of the day, and roused around eight o'clock, disoriented and weak, and needing patent medicines. Couldn't find any of ours, except for the Sudafed, which wasn't what was needed. He won't touch liquid NyQuil. So I broke the fast with a peanut butter sandwich, eaten as I walked to Target to get medicines, since the local corner place closes at seven.

(Note, on Saturday we were with friends at an SCA event in Golden Gate Park. I left early to go carbo-load. A friend, Jewish, noticed my absence and asked the fella where I was. "Balabusta left to get ready for the holiday," says the fella. "Holiday?" our friend asks. "Yeah, you fast all day and feel lousy." "Oh, Tisha B'Av's tomorrow?" says our friend, proving the accuracy of the description.)

I arrive at Target (you gotta imagine that this is pronounced "Tar-zhay", since I always do), and discover with horror that although I can get throat drops, they've responded to recent governmental pressure by taking all products containing pseudoephedrine off the shelf. NO NyQuil. No cold caps at all, except for Coricidin's high blood pressure version, which lacks pseudoephedrine.

I curse the War on Patent Drugs. I consider making my way across San Pablo Avenue in the dark to get to the Walgreens, decide to go with the Coricidin and return home.

I mean, sheesh, people. Meth labs are bad. Feds are scary. I get it. But I had a sick boyfriend at home. All I want is ONE box of NyQuil caps.

I found the NyQuil caps this morning, right where I'd put them, under the bathroom sink in a Sterilite box.

This morning I went for my driving lesson. I was allowed to steer around a parking lot. Unfortunately I cried a little on the instructor before getting started, but this is a driving school that specializes in the tense and phobic, and he assured me he's used to it. I think I did good.

Then the Balabusta shopped for shoes. She's already got new work clothes, needed shoes. (Clothes shopping note--I was persuaded while clothes shopping to buy a pale turquoise sweater to compliment a fudge-and-turquoise skirt I loved. I have not worn pale blue or green next to my face since, er, middle school. I am slowly getting the hang of cold colors. It's kind of interesting.)

I HATE shoe shopping. Shoes are expensive, often uncomfortable, and it's hard to find flats. Love clothes shopping, HATE shoes. Finally I managed to get a pair of black pumps and some brown stitched loafers at the El Cerrito Plaza Ross For Less. The Ross on Market Street in San Francisco let me down. So did Shoe Pavilion, DSW or whatever it is, Nordstrom, Aldo, John Madden, and a couple other places. I hate shoe shopping. I need to start shoe shopping more OFTEN, so that when one pair of shoes dies I have another waiting in the wings, and don't get stressed out. As is, I usually have one pair of black work shoes I wear almost every day, and when they fall apart, I am desperate.

The boyfriend is propped up in front of the TV, drinking tea with honey.