Thank Goodness for Valtrex

We live in the Herpes Triangle, according to a recent article in the Seattle Weekly. Which means that things are prone to mysteriously disappear and then later reappear in the form of a watery blister on your mucous membranes.

The best thing about that article is how it barely seems to qualify as news. Maybe it's my out-of-townerness, but to me it seems like a waste of newsprint (and a waste of newsprint is a tough thing to achieve because it's pretty much the worst paper ever) to detail the adventures of the local bar-hoppers, even to go all undercover and pretend to be single in order to gather research. To push the fact you're not actually single, just playing one in your column, as though being single was an experience as foreign to you as being say, a gay porcupine or an erudite journalist. And to present the results of your exposé in such a boring manner. The North High North Wind staff, on its worst most self-indulgent day wrote fake letters to the editor that were more hard-hitting.

Anyway. We do see a fair amount of drunken mumblers and slutty high-heeled tumblers in our neighborhood. A few months ago we heard a bunch of frat boys crossing the street and looked out the window just in time to see one fellow take out his penis and wave it around. Assumedly this is how the herpes is spread in Lower Queen Anne, so a good raincoat provides protection from more than just the rain.

Part of me wants to get down there and join in the party, because I've never lived in such close proximity to an actual bona fide party. Courtney often touted the benefits of living walking distance to bars and clubs, so that the toilet you collapse into will likely be your own and you'll never have to call that guy with the tiny motorcycle to save you from a DUI. But we've got our old-married-couple bedroom slippers on and instead we're opting to stay in and make cookies on a Friday night. Strawberry cheesecake cookies.

And nothing on our mucous membranes but sweet sweet mucous.