For an hour or so there this morning, I felt a lot better. Then, I went to work and began to feel steadily worse. Came home. Collapsed in bed. Read Midori Snyder's "Hannah's Garden," then slept coma-like for several hours. Christopher called mid-afternoon to say he felt rotten too.

I picked him up and we proceeded to layabout and feel miserable but not like dying souls on the couch all evening. We watched Breaking Away, which we'd netflixed because it's sort of a classic midwest bicycling movie, if there is such a thing. I was astounded by how good it really is. Seriously, great lines, an interestingly structured plot, a young tangental Dennis Quaid with the kind of body that can pull off short, tight denim cut-offs and some truly quirky stuff. Recommended.

Then I watched enough of Sunset Boulevard to put Christopher to sleep, but he'd never seen it, so I stopped and put on some second season Buffy. Good tv. Now sleep.

And then, tomorrow I'm sure I will still feel crap but will head off to Nashville for the weekend for a screenwriter's conference anyway because that's the kind of girl I am. Plus, last time I went I was able to crash a private concert with Guy Clark and Steve Earle at a llama farm owned by the Browns. (My advice: if a giant cushy tour bus such as rock stars might use ever pulls up to a curb and the doors are open, just get on, think about whether you were allowed to later.)

Good times. Night now.