March into, oh, whatever.

I'm home sick. Boo. Chest colds are no picnic. I'm taking Robutussin, long baths, catching up on old, languishing New Yorkers (didya read the piece about the kid at the Sundance Festival?) and reading cookbooks before collapsing into sleep. Sprout brought me pulpy OJ and potstickers. I have a kitchen full of food and I'm sitting around in my robe, trying to decide when is a decent bedtime. I hope I feel better tomorrow.