No, what does "exacerbate" mean?

I had a killer headache last night, but we were completely out of any sort of headache-relief type pills. It was late and I knew going out into the depths of Sunset Park after 8pm in hopes of finding anything open was futile. Lying very still only seemed to exacerbate it, so I went on a rampage through all my old purses and bags and junk drawer in search of a wayward packet of Tylenol that could deliver me from the pain. When all the searching finally produced exactly zero hidden packets of pain relief, I finally ended up taking NyQuil—the only product in the apartment with acetaminophen. This did the trick of course. But not without the crazy dreams and the spending all of today in a thick stupor.

Is anyone else SO PSYCHED that Old Navy seems to have finally given up on what was probably the most annoying commercial campaign ever? The commercials that made me want to rip my eyeballs out and use them as earplugs? The ones with the slow talking semi-celebrities and appropriated catchy songs (“Shorts! You’ll want to wear them forever…”)? Gone! And the ones in their place (ordering pants at a diner, picking pants in a field), I dare say fall categorically into Non-Annoying territory. And none too soon; there was nothing worse than those Christmas ones.

Max has gotten into the habit lately of coming into the bedroom around 4:00am and meowing until I kick him out and close the door, at which point I don’t hear from him again until I get up. I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and I definitely prefer this once-a-night routine to the crazed up-all-night-cat-on-crack behavior he used to pull, but still: why can’t he just kick himself out? Why do I have to physically rouse myself and lock him out to appease him? Is he the devil?

Here is a story I wasn’t sure if I was too embarrassed to tell you about. Last week I was headed to a nice dinner with family, so brought a cute skirt and fancy underwear to change into after work. I’d brought all the stuff with me into the cramped bathroom stall, where I proceeded to perform some acrobatic maneuvering that got me out of my old clothes and into the pretty clothes while hovering dangerously near the open toilet bowl. I was being extra careful with my clothes and even thought, “What would I do if I dropped my nice skirt into the toilet? That would seriously suck.” No sooner had the thought left my head than I realized my fancy underwear were nowhere to be seen. I knew it before I even looked: there they were floating around in the office toilet bowl water. Damn! I managed to fish them out without too much fanfare, but then had to wear the everyday underwear under the fancy skirt, which was not so desirable (but more desirable than going commando, under the circumstances).

I hope Sally and her crew are doing okay in Mississippi. Those pictures are scary.

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