Heather Anne

It is a testament to the longevity of our friendship that Amy didn't question me when I started to drink Tylenol Severe Cold straight from the bottle yesterday because I needed to "get ready for the big game." The big game, of course, was the NCAA Women's Basketball National Championship and it wasn't like I had to play in it, but I needed my energy because someone has to shout at the referees, and correct the ESPN analysts, and if I couldn't stop coughing how was I going to share all of my own personal anecdotes about Tennessee women's basketball? So drink it—nay, chug it—I did, and the Lady Vols won their 8th title.

Oh, have I ever been ill. Usually I would be a mule about the whole thing, refusing to see the doctor or take drugs or do anything, really, that didn't involve lying in bed and whimpering for someone to bring me soup and popsicles. But I am due to leave for Europe next week, and viral pathogens are my arch nemesis at this point. No one can lug a backpack through London at twenty percent lung capacity. Plus, I don't think they let you stay in hostels with other backpackers if you're hacking like a tuberculosis patient. So I have taken every suggestion Amy has thrown at me this week: doubling up on my Flintstone vitamins, sleeping, going to the doctor, drinking lots of liquid, eating freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. I think I am going to live.

I am trying to finish my next few weeks' Collective posts before my trip. One of the topics required me to read The Baby-Sitters Club #33: Claudia and the Great Search. I didn't have a copy, so I borrowed it from Amy, who had, apparently, "borrowed" it from her childhood best friend, Natalie. Nat, if you're reading, email me your address and I'll send your book back. However, I did make some notes in the margin. For example, at this one part Claudia says, "There's nothing like the feel of a baby in your arms." And I wrote: "It's that you-break-it-you-buy-it feel you get when you knock something off the shelf at Pottery Barn. Like, it was cute in the catalog, and now I'm going to spend the rest of my life paying for it."

If anyone wants a postcard from my trip, email me your address and I am happy to send you one. I'm heatherannehogan [at] gmail.com. Just put "postcard!" or something equally obvious in the subject line. If you put "viagra!", the Gmail ninjas will kick you to the spam folder, then kidnap and torture your children in the night. If only Tylenol Cold was as effective (and ruthless) as Google.