I am on the exhaustion plan this week despite my oncoming cold, because apparently I didn't learn anything at all from my throat infection in March, back when my throat was so swollen that all of my speech was muffled and thick and sounded like a bad Kermit the Frog impression, and my doctor took one look and gave me a fistful of vicodin. I don't heal very quickly, and spending a lot of time in crowded rooms full of germy strangers is not going to help me improve, although I would prefer to avoid a repeat of March's experience. (Although, for the record, none of this week should involve ugly male strippers or shotter pops or running into exboyfriends outside of strip clubs or Canadians taking off their pants in the street, like the weekend before that epically disgusting round of illness did. So maybe I'm safe.)
What the next week will involve will be a whole mess of shows, at the Showbox and Neumos and Sole Repair, and a last-minute visit from my favorite girl in San Fransisco, and a hilarious dinner party, and probably a lot of whiskey and champagne, and hopefully also a whole lot of soup. I'm getting a little alarmed whenever I look at my calendar, because there are a bunch of other things that I also need to put on there even though there are no open days left, but at least it keeps me from staring at my telephone that is stubbornly not ringing.
All of which is just to say that I am waiting for a phone call that I am not getting, and if I have to infect the entire Seattle metro area with head colds to avoid thinking about it, well, that's just what I'll do.
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