Where there was zing just a week ago, now there is the crud. I got it from my husband, who picked it up at work. I told two friends, and they told two friends, and so on and so on and so on.

I’ve been sick enough in the past few days that I haven’t even felt like reading. I know. I’m as surprised as you are. Since my early year slump with the books I picked it up and never looked back. Right now I am trying to read Rare Objects by Kathleen Tessaro, but my head is pounding and my nose is leaking, and I really can’t keep two words together in my head. I think it’s really good though. I’ll get back to you.

Instead I’ve been watching TV. Thank heavens for Netflix. I’ve been binge-watching Anthony Bourdain’s The Layover and it makes me about as excited as a crusty-eyed, gooey-nosed person can get for a vacation that is just 23 days away. And although he isn’t visiting any of the places I am going, I adore looking at cities I haven’t visited yet like Singapore, Hong Kong, and Montreal. I wasn’t all that enchanted with the Miami episode. I guess the party attitude of South Beach just isn’t my thing. But finding where to get a bacon butty in London? You’re singing my song, Tony.

I also watched Grease on Monday. Holy shit, I don’t think I’ve seen the unedited, un-censored version since I was at a sleepover in 6th grade. It’s one of those movies that once you catch it flipping channels you have to watch the whole thing, isn’t it?

That’s right, I played a record album, and not ironically.

Grease is one of those movies that is highly nostalgic for someone of my, ahem, years. I remember being five years-old and owning the soundtrack on vinyl. That’s right folks, because cassette tapes were’t a big enough thing yet. It was a double album set and I listened to it over and over in heavy rotation with the Sound of Music soundtrack I inherited from my Mom and Disney’s Macho Duck. It was the late 70’s, kids, and I was five and in love with Andy Gibb. I never claimed I had taste. At least not at five. Hell, I’m still not sure.

Anyway. Grease. There are so many wonderful memories in that movie. The sheen on Sandy’s cheek at the pep rally when she flirts with the quarterback, the exact bubblegum hue of Frenchie’s hair when she had “a little trouble in tinting class.” That giant cotton candy Madge whips ups at the carnival. And of course, a hickey from Kenickie is like a Hallmark card.

Say it with me folks, “When you care enough to send the very best.”

But watching it on Netflix gave even a new dimension of enjoyment to me as I now get all the jokes that flew over my head as an eleven year-old. I won’t go into all the vulgarities here, but let’s just say there was more than a little innuendo going on and wasn’t the squeaky clean film I remember. Which made it all the more delightful.

I’ve you’ve read my blog at all, you know I have a tendency to pick up earworms. Rest assured I will be singing “Summer Nights,” “You’re the One that I Want,” and “Hand Jive” (as sung by Johnny Casino and the Gamblers played by Sha Na Na) for oh, approximately two months. At least I don’t have the desire to sing out loud and share my good fortune with others, as I am sure my husband and friends in France will appreciate.