Or, You Connect the Dots in a Rambling Post
We had a lovely weekend in Chicago to celebrate our anniversary, bookended by a kilo-assload of work completed by Thursday night and a sinus infection and head cold starting Friday through today. But everything in between was bliss!
Because we are serious nerds, we spent all afternoon Friday at the Museum of Science and Industry. Among the exhibits was a human body tour, complete with real cross-sections and organ displays. Seeing the yardage of your intestines in their gray, stringy glory when you are already both nauseous and hungry is a special treat. There was also a display of fetal development in utero, which included week 4 through week 37 "specimens" collected from autopsies in the early 20th century. Once we got past the inherent creep factor, it was pretty cool and KB seemed to especially appreciate seeing the remarkable changes from early to late development. The 37-week baby was both terribly interesting and terribly sad to look at, since it was obviously a stillborn infant. By the time we reached that little vat of formaldehyde, the creepiness won and we moved on to something less gross, like a colon and anus.
Friday night we discovered that our hotel did not have ice machines available, and I needed to ice my rump down for a PIO injection. I called room service to request an ice bucket and it never came. Dicks. I rummaged through the minibar and noticed some metal cans that seemed pretty cold. So, I stuck a can of RedBull in my pants to numb my butt and holyshititworked. And to the next guest who raids the minibar to make a vodka and RedBull: enjoy. Compliments of my ass.
On Saturday, we ate for the second time at our new favorite but so-expensive-as-to-be-quite-occasional restaurant: Alinea. Twelve-course meal and SO GOOD. Anytime you are presented with a course called Truffle Explosion and cautioned to eat it with your mouth firmly closed or you'll be sorry, you know you're in for a treat.
As the weekend progressed, my cold took a little turn and I developed a low-grade fever, which naturally turned me into a Very Paranoid Person. After moaning that my uterus might very well be an actual oven, KB made me page the on-call nurse at my clinic to ask about acetaminophen. Which I already knew is totally fine to take. But still needed to hear it from someone else. Because, I don't know. Paranoia makes you do crazy shit. The nurse, who I'm fairly sure was calling me back from a bar, assured me that my 99-point-something temperature was no big deal and that I could have all the acetaminophen I desire. So, okay. Crisis averted. Narrowly.
I'm feeling better now but still keeping an eye on my temperature. You know, hourly.
One and one-half days (or two nights) until we get the almighty confirmation we need. I keep telling myself to assume all is well, because what else can you do? I just want to see to believe.