Nothing Ever Quiet on the Western Front

The earache is better -- although whether that's due to the medicated drops, laying down with an icebag wrapped to my head ala Marley's ghost, or walking around with with a peeled garlic clove shoved my ear like a hillbilly hearing aid, I am uncertain.

At least it doesn't quite feel like I have a steak knife shoved in the side of my skull any more. Not quite.

But while I was laying down with the icebag desperately trying biofeedback, my mom called and left a voicemail, child #3 called three times, child #1 called three times, the S/O called four times, and the strange old woman who always calls asking, "Is Mary there?" called twice. Turns out that the S/O and child #1 were both calling to tell me to get hold of child #3, who is hysterical about something, but not hysterical enough to relate the cause to them and can only speak to me. Oh, and child #1 called once more to relate that my mother wanted to know why she couldn't get a hold of me.

Child #3 is now not answering the phone, and I am too old to understand how to use the newfangled text messaging. Sigh.

And We Shall Never Speak of Them Again

I really, really, really hate the Detroit Redwings. That is all.