Laughter is the best medicine. Well, no, antibiotics are the best medicine. But laughter is good.

Made it to the doctor, finally. Doesn't it suck that you have to go to the doctor when you're sick? I mean, figuring out who's going to get the kids after school, fighting the downtown traffic, squeezing into the parking lot, taking off your slushy boots and figuring out whether it's better to get wet socks or put the little booties on and feel like a moron -- all of that is not fun when you're in tiptop shape. When you're sneezing/wheezing/hacking/shivery/achy it borders on cruel and unusual punishment.

So it turns out I really am sick. Aggravated airways, raging sinus infection, chest infection, maybe some kind of eyebrow cancer (not really). My doctor prescribed a double round of antibiotics and told me I should go home and go to bed. Then we laughed because, as if. But still, it was nice to hear. I'm all about external validation, and if it comes in the guise of "no, you're not just lazy, you really are packed to the rafters with nasty, life-sapping bacteria", I'll take it. 

There was a man in the waiting room when I got there trying to get a hold of his wife on the phone. He was saying "it's kind of an emergency. I'm at the doctor's, and my temperature's rising and she thinks I'm having an attack". He kept getting passed from person to person and repeating the story, and I felt bad for him, but more than anything I really wanted to know what kind of attack. The nurse called me before he had gotten his wife, and I could barely restrain myself from grabbing his shoulder and yelling "I'm sorry, I know it's inappropriate, but I HAVE TO KNOW" as security dragged me out. And this is why I don't ride buses very often.

Pam and I went down to Hintonburg on Friday to amble around the neighbourhood before we picked up the canvas and paintings from Eve's party. It was sunny and not too cold, and it was fun looking around the little stores full of beautiful hand-made clothing, quirky accessories and the odd collection of pornographic greeting cards. We had lunch in a little cafe that served us sandwiches on homemade bread, with cupcakes on the side, and the waitress said, I shit you not, "we're out of carrot sticks so I gave you cupcakes instead. I hope that's okay." So obviously we got up and stormed out, vowing never to return. Pam lost her mittens. We looked all over for Pam's mittens and couldn't find them. Then we got back in the car and Pam found her mittens. Why do they not make grown-up mittens with the strings that go through your coat? I would buy them. And not just for Pam. 

Friday night I stumbled over a Saturday Night Live collection of their commercial parodies on Netflix. I put it on while the kids were around. This was not one of my better judgement calls. The adult diapers were bad enough, but then I tried to fast forward through one that was obviously VERY inappropriate, and managed to stop just in time for Tina Fey to say "Woomba. It cleans my business -- my lady business". Very shortly we were feeling quite nostalgic for Oops I crapped my pants adult diapers. Still, every now and then it's good for the family to share in a good bout of uncontrollable, cheek-stretching, can't-catch-your-breath laughter. If it comes at the expense of responsible parenting, so be it.