Sometimes, I think the Universe gets a little lackadaisical when it comes to distributing bad luck. Remember our Bible story friend Job? That guy could not catch a break. Meanwhile, there were tons of folks getting off scot-free. It's like all that power gets overwhelming and It (the Universe) resorts to selection processes common to the playground set.

Ink-a-bink
A bottle of ink
The cork fell out
And YOU stink

I'm no Job. But people, I've been stinking for some time now. I'm not complaining (you do that and folks jump ALL over you about hurricanes and cancer and shit. Definitely not going there); I am pretty amused at the number of mishaps I've had in the last month or two. See: minor car accident leading to a very brief visit to the ER where I picked up a staff infection IN MY FACE. See also: the trip down my front steps that carved up my heel like a cheese grater. And now this. The Cosmic Playground Bully must have clued into the fact that I've been off antibiotics for a couple weeks and found it unacceptable.

The short of it: Monday morning, I shaved my legs. Saturday morning I was in urgent care. The two, stupidly enough, are related.

I'll be frank: except where swimming or sex is involved, I don't tend to bother with hair removal above the knees. It's just a whole lot of terrain to cover and I lack the time and motivation. But on Labor Day there was a fuchsia bikini involved, so I spent some quality time with the Venus Breeze before going to sweat it out poolside.  Tuesday, I woke up with pretty fierce razor burn on my inner left thigh, but thought eh, it happens. Only, it didn't go away. I attributed its staying power to my newly (re)found love of jogging (I signed up to run in the relay at the Whiterock Marathon. Foolish or fantastic? The jury's still out). But I'm a dedicated fan of Neopsorin and I applied twice daily, figuring it would do what it has always done - make me better! Four days faster than a bandage alone! Oh, silly me. That only works when the Universe is playing it straight.

After work on Friday evening, I napped, ran some errands, and then plopped down on the couch to snuggle with the beast. Sensing an opening, Sir Hal jumped up and began kneading my lap. In a hot second, the poor, surprised cat was flung to the ottoman and I was bent over in pain. Warning: I am about to use the word groin. Don't worry, I'm as uncomfortable about this as you will be. I pressed my hand to the glands in my... groin; it felt like I was smuggling Tootsie Roll Midgies under my skin. The hell! In the bathroom mirror I saw (to my complete mouth-sweating horror) that a red line was snaking up my thigh to my groin. I hit panic mode. Blood poisoning and death! It was certain!

No lie, I actually made a mental reference of the Little House on the Prairie episode where Ma gets an infection in her leg while Pa is away and all is almost lost, but because Caroline Ingalls is super tough pioneer stock, she saves herself with a knife and some boiling water.

I digress. I also have run long in the story of my travail, so here's the gist of what I learned from the elderly physician who treated me the next morning. My predicament was not uncommon or surprising. Folliculitis (duh) and an infection in my lymph system. From shaving my legs. Mind you, I am a perfectly hygienic person. I shower. I even use soap!

"It happens," he said, shrugging. "You've got bacteria living on your skin all the time, and it only needs an opportunity - a nick, a cut - to get in."

"So, I shaved. I got sick."

"Yes."

Again, the hell! I took his antibiotic and went home, baffled. When my sister called later that morning, I told her all about my woes. She did not share the good doctor's nonchalance.

"Heather, people shave their legs EVERY DAY and don't have to go to the hospital."

"I know."

"Wow. You're really... special."

"I prefer chosen."

Last night, with Laura's Tivo acting as a safety net, I took a break from my Olympic binge and actually spent an evening outside of my apartment. When I say I took a break, I mean, when we arrived at the restaurant for dinner, I asked to be seated at a table near the bar, so I could keep an eye on the synchronized platform finals. Because I am weak. And I am addicted. Fortunately, my dinner partner is either just as gravely in need of an intervention or a truly gifted enabler, because not only put up with my constant TV glancing, he had a hefty supply of Michael Phelps trivia.  Oh, the depth of emotion I have experienced over swim cap layering!

When this is all over, I suspect that I'm going to feel very empty and sad. Maybe I will start caring about Heroes. Or Mad Men. Or, you know, humanity. But more than likely I will simply start watching my Little House on the Prairie DVDs all over again.

In a feat of remarkable self control, I did manage to separate myself from Olympic coverage completely last night for the couple hours it took to see Pineapple Express. Hysterical, I tell you. Worth missing the women's gymnastics final? Well, like I said, I had Laura's Tivo. Otherwise, crazy talk.

So, I know things have been slow around here, and so I'm going to open it up to requests. Wanna hear about something particular? Leave a comment! I warn you now that requests involving the words "intern" or "musician"  will be blatantly ignored.  Proceed!

I have started and trashed at least eight posts in the last four days. I think the cold weather has freezer-burned my brain, because lately, it's just not firing right. Most evenings, I find myself staring at the computer screen and thinking very deep thoughts like, I should order some soup.Mmmmm, split pea.

See? Split pea! Obviously things are not as they should be. Anyway, in lieu of posts about my adventures with a gorgeous divorcee, my magical evening in Hoboken , or my upcoming trip to Dallas, I'm gonna make a list. Because lists don't require verbs or punctuation or story arcs or any of those other things that might take away from thoughts about soup.

So, via Ari, Things I'm a Sucker For:

Coffee from the deli downstairs (If the good lord himself made coffee, it couldn't taste any better.)
The cold side of the pillow
Kissing dreams
Kissing, in general
Q-Tips
Making Ari laugh
Making Sarah B involuntarily exclaim, "I love you!"
Belching (I know. I hope you still like me.)
Coconut shrimp
Out-of-town guests
Red toenails
Laying in the bath with my hair all fanned out and pretending I'm the Little Mermaid
Weird Al
Being teased
Little black dresses
Pretty underwear
Chivalry
Expensive sheets
My sister-in-law
All those blood relations, too
Scrabble
Charles Ingalls
Boys with nice hands
Having things to look forward to
Text messages, email, mail and phone calls (Really, communication of any kind)
The phrase, "Like, color of wheat..." and anyone who gets it
Much Ado About Nothing (Okay, mostly Benedict. I'd hit that.)
Funny people
Dirty jokes
Compliments
Girl Scout cookies
Pillow talk
Stuff

"... and watched a few hours of Little House on the Prairie."

"Of course you did."

"Come on! Don't pretend you didn't like it when you were a kid."

"I think I watched it every week. And sometimes, if I'm flipping through the channels and it's on, I'll stop. Not if it's the girls. But if Charles and Mr. Edwards are dickin' around with a horse, or hunting or something, I'll watch. Or, if Doc Baker is out on his rounds, and I want to see who's sick."

"You just said dickin' around with a horse."

"Yes, I did."

"And you know Doc. Baker's name."

"Yeah."

"And you were making fun of me?"

"That's right."

"Mmmm hmm."

Watching my favorite childhood television show as an adult is an eye-opening experience. Years later, I’m still in love with Little House on the Prairie, but for reasons that would have totally and completely eluded me as a kid.

Like in the very first episode of Season One, Pa breaks his ribs falling from a tree. Good old Doc Baker comes out to Plum Creek to tend to him, and while he’s wrapping Pa’s bare torso in long strips of cloth, it occurred to me:

Holy shit. Charles Ingalls is freaking hot.

Long hours of driving a team of oxen and working at the mill made Pa one cut, burly guy. But it’s not just the working man’s chiseled chest and well-defined arms that make him so rarrr. Oh, no.

Pa is also a total sap. But not in a momma’s boy kind of way, of course. He knows when to play the hardass, but he also knows when to get warm and fuzzy. I can’t help but get a bit choked up when he goes all weepy over a lost wheat crop, or when he’s overcome with pride for Half Pint and Mary. This is a man who’s in touch with his feelings.

Pa loves his wife. He flirts and flatters and grabs her by the bonnet to plant big, prairie kisses on her. And when Ma gets upset, he can’t help but crack a smile. It’s as though it no-so-secretly delights him to see her give up that small measure of control that it requires to get her flustered. Which might be exasperating if it weren't totally charming.

“Time spent being angry with you is such as waste,” Ma says to Pa one night in bed. But I can’t help but get the feeling that they both enjoy it. Just a little bit.

Pa is a man who knows how to do things. From fiddle playin’ to plowing a field and shingling a roof, Charles Ingalls is a guy with practical skills. It’s the same kind of competence that makes me so giddy over MacGyver and Thomas Magnum. There is nothing sexier than know-how.

And when it’s combined with a fine physique and emotional availability? Well, I’m suddenly a girl with some serious Pa issues.