Welcome to our ninth annual Get Out of Town! issue. I'd like to make a late-breaking addition to this year's list of dishonorees: the goddamn cold that's been ravaging Tucson like a modern-day plague.
It arrived at the Boegle household on Saturday, and I spent much of the day meandering around the house doing my best Bea Arthur impression. I knew I had a cold, but it felt minor, and I thought I was already getting over it when I felt halfway decent Saturday night.
Then came Sunday, and with the new day came an intensified phlegm-fest. I spent a good chunk of the day editing copy for this week's issue while hacking up my lungs, and I got to play a fun game: "Is that sentence incoherent, or am *I* incoherent?"
When I woke up Monday, the frigging cold was even worse. I went through at least two boxes of tissue—no exaggeration—and was chided by co-workers for daring to come into the office. (Trust me: I would have preferred to be at home and guzzling chicken soup in bed. But we have a small staff.) I sneezed, snorted, coughed and hacked for much of the day, until the issue was far enough along that I could go home and take a fitful nap.
As of this writing, it's Tuesday, and the cold is finally subsiding. A little. A teeny, teeny bit. So far, I've only gone through a half-box of tissue today, but the skin around my nose is raw from all the honking and blowing.
Bleh. Get out of town, you nasty-ass cold—and take all of these snotty tissues with you.