We're going to try this whole "Visit Aunt Rita" thing again. Last week, I was ticked that my parents didn't want me to go with them because my voice is hoarse, if only because I honestly don't think I'm contagious by now (three weeks into this whole laryngitis thing).

Then it snowed, and it turns out that my parents never went, either. They want to go today, so I'm going with them this time instead. I'm glad, because after the headlines of the past week, a dose of "downashore" is exactly what the doctor ordered.

I had been HOPING that the sense of mourning over losing my team wouldn't set in until after the season actually ended, but it's not working out that way. I feel like I have a loved one who's only got a brief time left to live -- torn between "Enjoy their company now, while they're still here" and uncontrollable flashes of knowing that I'll miss them terribly when they're not here anymore. What's worse is that those darned "we're losing them" thoughts will spring up out of no-freaking-where, no matter what I'm doing, and cast a pall over my mood.

No wonder I had a bout of nausea -- literal nausea -- at the Phan Club meeting last night. (My sincere apologies to the cleaning crew, though I did my level best to undo the results of said "organ recital".)

I shouldn't be surprised. Any time I try to convince myself, "I'm fine, really, everything's OK", when things are about as far from OK as they can get, I end up with psychosomatic problems. Usually it's nausea (last night, for example), but since the concussion in 2000 sometimes it takes the form of migraines. I haven't had one of THOSE yet, but I'm carrying an Imitrex around with me at all times Just In Case.

Anyway, here's to a nice day Downashore and maybe a good dose of Favorite Childhood Place will be a good tonic for what remains of my morale after last week's news.