You may recall I was ill a few weeks ago. Turned out to be a sinus infection. Got it cleared out with a short course of antibiotics, but it still gave me the impudence to write a scene for the new project that Adam called "surprisingly touching" because, doy, sick and yadda, yadda, yadda.

Sick.

Well, it never did clear all the way up, so today I trotted back to the doctor to see if there was any particular reason I was sporting a dry, hacking cough like the female half of TomKat and her pair of oversized Prada sunglasses.

The doctor hemmed and hawed and flipped through my chart, listened to my chest, listened to me cough, took a couple of lung function readings and wrote me prescriptions for inhalors and steroids in pill form and another round of antibiotics of the mucus turns green, but really, he thought it was just my asthma come back to play.

Greeeeeat. I thought I'd outgrown that along with my training bra.

Upside: I got lung function device, or as I like to think of it: the phantom spitballer. Big breath, blow, a little floaty ball shoots through the tube, but doesn't come out. Lots of spittle can be involved. It works.

Downside: I can't go out in the current haze (Arizona's burning and we've got all the smoke), I can't be around smokers (or go into smoke-filled bars), and I can't pass any IOC-sponsored drug tests. Bummer. My dream of winning the gold medal in ice dancing has gasped its last.

Oh, yes. I went there.

I also tooled around town with the top down and hung out with a co-worker while he finished his cigarette. I'm bad.