Parting Sorrow

"Parting is such sweet sorrow", said Shakespeare and he was right! The part in my hair was evidently a "vice" and this time not of Mr. S's invention but of the hairdresser's who pranced about my chair flourishing his comb.  "You part, not left," he exclaimed, "It right. No?" He brandished his weapon, a brush, and voila, my head did look better! When I left the salon, my, wallet much lighter, I made a promise to change and part my hair on the right from then on. Never again on the left. But the next time I shampooed and faithfully put the part on the right, not the left, as my day went on, my hair decided against me.  My next visit to the mirror and there it was. The hair had spoken. As time went on, I forgot about it as life got in the way of vanity and normalcy returned. Not until today, when getting over a fierce cold, did I feel the need to do something more in life and recalled Giorgio, the hairdresser, and put my part on the right side of my head.  A half hour later, still with hot air brush in hand, the mission was accomplished. My hair parting was "vice...by action dignified" and to me parting on the right now seemed a "virtue". I went about the day feeling renewed. I was a fresh, different person. The old me had become enhanced and invigorated by this new aspect. I, a plain gal, felt quite attractive even though I didn't have time to check out a mirror in the course of the work load. When at last, I escaped my given tasks, I rushed to the mirror. It had been the ideal day and I attributed it to the new parting - on the right! How easy it was to become the person I had always wanted to be.  I looked into the mirror. There before me was my hair, my epiphany.  My old part on the left was back alas, and worse, I thought I could sense a smirk lurking there.  Yes, Mr. Shakespeare, "Parting is such sweet sorrow."

Uncommon Cold

Being in the grip of the currently popular unpopular cold, is common but the cold itself, if that's what it is, is not. Previous colds I have had the displeasure to encounter, have been inconvenient things that at the most, last two weeks but usually for only five days. They are wet affairs with a little coughing and much inconvenience, but tolerable. I am with this, in a grip like being in the teeth of  a pack of mad dogs cold. It shakes me and bites me and grips me with all of its might and I am powerless to rid myself of it. The beast has been with me over two weeks and plagues me at night with its choking, coughing spells until my ribs threaten to disintegrate. My head feels like an onion and the inside of my throat like the outside of a burr. My whole body is subject to the whims of its grip and can do little to argue against it, In short, I am helpless. I am told that it is likely a virus and that an anti-biotic the modern-day cure-all cannot help. I am, therefore, left to my own devices which amount to lemon drink. I ran out of lemons and am left to limes - and cough drops. The latter works and all the lemonade does is soothe my psyche. Bed is the answer but lying down causes coughing. I sit but that's the way horses sleep or do they stand? I am hoarse, but no horse unless that is the ultimate plan. On four legs would be of benefit the way I feel. My voice is a cross between crow, duck and rooster. I do not speak in any event because that encourages coughing . I quack. I quake and ache. I am stiff and sniff. I bumble and grumble. I am in a state of abject misery and wallow in it which is self-evident. 

Organic Bomb Discovery

The shrapnel is almost all cleaned up after the latest experiment in organic bombing. The discovery is not new but it is one that remains unique in its effectiveness for cleaning kitchens. Or microwave ovens on a smaller scale. The egg bomb that I eureka-ed was one of those accidental though messy break-throughs. The sound effect is akin to any small bomb, but the device itself, has entirely no impact on the environment. In fact, it could be beneficial.  No chemicals that harm were employed. A simple pot with water and a bit of salt, although it had no practical purpose in this experiment, is all it takes. The elbow grease that ensues is a side effect and generally harmless except in arthritic joint victims. I discovered this new weapon as I was seated at my computer, innocently playing Hearts, when there was a loud explosion that seemed to emanate from the direction of the kitchen, some walls away. The sound was concussive and caused me to end my usual unsuccessful attempts to beat my electronic competitor, and investigate the explosion. The smell of something burning led me to what I suspected. The pot of boiling eggs had dried and overheating the shells of the four therein, blew up three. The evidence of the blast did not reveal which egg went where, as the flotsam was varied and most of it in such small amounts that identification of the device remains undetected. The entire room was festooned with the after-effects and required the clean-up crew of one, to begin mop-up immediately. Literally everything in the entire room including the ajacent dining area, was liberally covered with egg white and yellow. Most of it was dried and thus easily removed. There was no loss of life. The credit for the crime could only be the responsibility of one. It appeared to be the work of one individual. Me. What was surprising, is that the stainless steel fridge door that usually shows any and all evidence was completely unmarked. This was jolly good, for as we women all know, stainless steel fridge doors are the bane of our lives. The evidence is now all collected and distributed to the trash authority. It appears to be the work of a single mad widow.