WHINE...

I’m currently snuggled deeply beneath my king-sized down comforter, the familiar warmth from my laptop keeping my upper thighs and hips cozy, the remote control firmly planted within arm’s reach, my freshly-washed hair comfortably nestled atop my two oversized pillows, a half-eaten container of Yoplait chocolate-raspberry whipped yogurt idly placed on the floor….and a Breath-Right Mentholated Nasal Strip firmly affixed to my overly swollen nose. Of all the things I mentioned above, which one seems most conspicuous? Just like the song from that old Sesame Street bit: “One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn’t belong, can you tell which thing is not like the others by the time I finish my song?” I totally kicked ass at that game by the way. I was always the first kid in the room to establish that the red ball totally did NOT belong with the other three blue items. That’s neither here not there and it’s evident that my overdose of Afrin has indeed, much to my husband’s apprehension, affected the area of my brain that manages coherence. On any given normal evening, this would be a comfortable end to another busy day. I would typically be drifting peacefully to sleep with the somewhat soothing sounds of Star Trek Enterprise and/or my husband channel surfing for the geekiest documentary ever aired on the History Channel. Oh my stars I’m really having difficulty getting to my actual point tonight. I’m sick. And not in your typical Quentin Tarantino flick kind of sick. I’m sick in the exploding sinuses, blindingly severe facial pain, monster trucks revving their engines in my head, just kill me now and use my body for science kind of sick. Oh Jesus Joseph and Mary just take a drill to my facial bones and drain the mother-effers already. I hate being sick for several reasons, the most significant one being Everybody In This House Forgets How To Function Normally When Mama Needs To Feel Better. "No, I can’t drag my congested ass from the couch to get you a third glass of milk because I taught you how to use a stool five years ago." (actually it’s my nose, not my ass that’s congested because that would just be gross) "And no, you can’t use your baby brother as a goal post or a punching bag. Yes, I realize he’s laughing, but that’s because you keep jabbing him in the ribs with a plastic light saber and he can’t catch his breath long enough to scream at you to KNOCK IT OFF. Sit on my head one more time child and I swear to the God of Happy Meals and More Plastic Crap Toys That We Don’t Need, I’ll sell you in my next garage sale. Laugh it up fuzz ball, but five bucks is five bucks."

I kid. Or do I?

After a riveting trip to the science center tomorrow, I’m high-tailing it to my doctor’s office. She’d better have an antibiotic IV drip in the waiting room for me because Mama ain’t playin’ around.