I'm hauling around a fat case of what seems to be the flu, if the emissions I'm producing fairly regularly are any indication of The Disease Within. The kids were sick for about 15 minutes before their tiny muscular immune systems soundly kicked any and all virus asses present and now they have begun the process of tearing the house apart around my supine, heavily medicated form.
It always seems as though the small oversights we all make from time to time all come screaming to the forefront when Mama's temperature cruises over 101 degrees. All of a sudden, we're out of toilet paper, yogurt, crayons and Scooby-Doo episodes that haven't been seen one thousand times. Every kid stomach is magically and eternally empty and the cats decide to stage a coup over the ultra-cheap food I make them eat by rattling the bag as soon as my fevered brain hits REM sleep. The Boy somehow manages to find and watch several episodes of Deranged on Discovery I.D. and then comes to ask me a bazillion questions like "Mom, what's 'ligature strangulation'?" The Girl decides it's a Clothing Optional Day and then answers the door for the Fed-Ex guy. All the real food I bought last week has mysteriously vanished, leaving me to try and create a palatable kid-friendly meal out of mayonnaise, macaroni and frozen spinach. What do I care? It's not going to stay down anyway. I'm not exactly sure how the kitchen floor got to look as though Salvador Dali threw up on it sometime between midnight and six in the morning, but I strongly suspect cats were involved. All the annoying toys I've been hiding in the back of the closet crawled out and parked themselves in easy-to-reach places so that I could be awakened by a cacophonous melange of annoying-toy sound effects, accompanied by a symphony of sibling argument. Apparently, all the towels are out back smoking a blunt and laughing at my stupidity for not checking to make sure at least one of them was sober and available to dry my butt. I can't tell if the dishes in the dishwasher are clean or dirty or somewhere in between. The bed is calling me and it has a voice like Barry White. Every telemarketer in the nation has gotten the message that I'm 'Quilled up beyond logical thought and have been attempting to get me to buy everything from trash bags to airline tickets. Too bad I don't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of, or I could go and listen to a forty-hour presentation on investing in Florida swampland.