Fever Pitch

I had the strangest fever all weekend. Now I know why I went to bed at 8:30 p.m. Thursday night.

I woke up Friday feeling fine. So I thought. The dog had to go in to the vet’s for the day, so we didn’t have time for a walk (she wasn’t allowed to eat anything, and she always grabs something off the ground on our walks). Then I had errands to run downtown. Returned home, picked up the dog after some writing, and realized I was feeling a tad warm. I didn’t think anything of it. Nope, I didn’t walk the dog in the afternoon because she had to recover from her teeth-cleaning, not because there was anything wrong with me, you understand. Then the afternoon wore on, and I realized I only had enough energy to lie in front of the TV and vegetate—something I only do during the day when I’m sick. But I wasn’t sick! I was just too lazy to walk the dog (another very rare occurrence that should have clued me in).

Friday night, my Liege and I went out to an impromptu dinner. By this point, I was very emotional (watching Sicko before meeting him made me cry), and I went to bed early again.

Saturday morning, I awoke bright and early. My Liege offered to walk the dog alone, something that rarely happens. I hopped onto the computer, eager to get a ton of business-of-writing stuff accomplished. Then it hit me. I was either having the world’s biggest hot flash or I had a fever. I spent most of the day sleeping. When a friend mentioned that hot flashes usually don’t last 12+ hours, I finally admitted I might be sick.

I spent all of Saturday and Sunday in my pajamas. Sunday was a little better. No long naps (I only sleep during the day if I’m utterly exhausted or ill), but I couldn’t walk the dog again in the morning and I spent all day lying in front of the TV. Between Saturday and Sunday, I managed to scratch two items off my massive biz-of-writing To-Do list. And I considered that an accomplishment.

This was a very weird illness, because my only symptom seemed to be the fever. And tiredness. And thirst. I drank tons of water, rested for eons, and, okay, did the laundry, managed one afternoon walk with the dog, and pretended I was going to make dinner. Instead, I ate cashews and chocolate ice cream and caught up on my movie watching.

Goya’s Ghosts: Excellent. Watch it. Natalie Portman did an excellent job. As did Javier Bardem and Stellan Skarsgard (I’m starting to wonder if there’s any role Bardem doesn’t do well). Barely recognized Randy Quaid!

Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day: I endured about 20 minutes before deleting it from the digital recorder. I enjoy Frances McDermond and Amy Adams, but after Goya’s Ghosts I just…didn’t care.

Last Chance Harvey: Enjoyable enough for a Sunday afternoon. If you like Dustin Hoffman, you’ll like this movie.

Ghosts of Girlfriends Past: My Liege rented this for me Saturday evening. I enjoyed it, but Matthew McConaughey is starting to wear on me. I know, sacrilege! It seems that all the characters he plays lately are the same—charming slimeballs. I’ve met a charming slimeball or two in my lifetime, and I’m really not a fan of the type. I’d really like to see McConaughey play some meatier roles. On the other hand, I thought Michael Douglas was a hoot as McConaughey’s uncle.

Oh, and Sicko: Enjoyed it, even though it made me cry. This movie about the American medical system made me VERY glad I live in Canada, although now I’m seriously considering moving to France.