Today is the third day in a row where I feel like I am swallowing razors, but Dr. Google assures me that this isn't strep throat. I assessed all my symptoms, and what I'm experiencing is most likely just some virus and I'm not about to pay $90 to have my doctor tell me to get some rest as if that is even possible when my three-year-old is taking Cheerios out of her bowl and sticking them in her ears.

I was like, Marlo. MARLO. Please stop doing that. I haven't slept in three days because the pain of swallowing knocks me wide awake, and oh? You're not going to stop? Okay then. Fine. I'll just put you on the floor and point the dogs toward the treats on your head and now you're screaming. I totally didn't see that coming.

Is that cruel? Yeah? Because you know cave people used wolves for discipline all the time, and our species isn't extinct!

Meanwhile Leta was sitting at the table eating her breakfast and shaking her head. "At what point will she understand how awful it is to be sick?" she said. "Like, can't she see the bags under your eyes?"

How thoughtful is my eight-year-old?

……

This virus distracted me from a post I wanted to write about my friend Anna Beth who is holding design camps around the country over the next few months. She recently held her first in New Orleans with much success (you can read about it here). You might remember her as the woman I hired to help me design my living room and guest room. Which reminds me, I never really posted still photos of that room:

She, much like Cami, inspires me to take chances when it comes to the look of everything in my life, not just interior design (her portfolio is full of eye candy). Her camps cover things like the basic principles of design, wall coverings, lighting, decorating on a budget, styling, and pulling it all together. I myself will be attending one of these camps once I figure out my insane travel schedule and remove the razors from my esophagus.

Her next camp will be held in Austin from June 30-July 1. As Anna Beth would say, if you're interested, DEWITT. I mean, even Martha Stewart gave a glowing testimonial: "She makes me want to put myself back in prison until I learn something useful."

I've got a sore throat with a fever and chills and an ache in my neck that stretches all the way to my lower back, so I'm lying here for a bit with the covers over my head listening to this track called "Myth" off of the new Beach House album called Bloom:

They are what is referred to as a "dream pop" duo from Baltimore, whatever that means. I've just got this song on repeat and it's helping my headache more than the ibuprofen is. I hope you enjoy it.

My alarm goes off at 6:45 AM, and with my eyes still closed I reflexively reach over, fumble around the detritus on my nightstand until I find the monitor. I click the button to turn it on only to hear Marlo in the middle of shouting, "MMMOOOOHHMMM!" And then I can hear it through her closed door and my closed door, an endless string of MMMOOOOHHMMM!s amplified in stereo by the monitor. I can tell by the emphasis on the vowel that she is shouting this not because she is in any danger but because she likes the way it sounds coming out of her mouth. If I were in her room I'd use one hand to stick a wet finger in her ear and the other hand to reach inside both of her nostrils.

This goes on for about five minutes until I finally roll out of bed, slip on a pair of workout pants and open the door to my bedroom. I'm still waking up and don't see Leta standing RIGHT THERE, her arms crossed, her weight leaning on her right hip to highlight the fact that she is totally serious, for real, not even joking, she most certainly did not steal this pose from iCarly, okay maybe she did BUT THAT IS NOT THE POINT.

I bump into her, apologize and say, "Hey, good morning. I didn't see you there."

"Um… yeah," she says, not breaking the stern line of her mouth. "So," she continues. "Do you not hear that? Like, are you deaf?"

"Am I like, deaf?"

"Yeah," she says. "CAN YOU HEAR?!"

"Are you talking about the nonsense coming from your sister's room?" I ask, because the only other thing I can hear is the menacing ghost-howl of impending teenage years that will one day stab me in the face and leave me for dead.

"Listen," she says. "My room is right next to hers. Yours is much farther away."

"Okay."

"OKAY? How am I supposed to sleep through that kind of noise?"

"You're talking to me like I'm your landlord."

"You need to fix this, Mom. Otherwise I'm never going to get any sleep and there goes my attention span at school!"

You guys, she is totally getting all of her security deposit back when she moves out.