By doze is stuppy. I feel like my head is clogged with mucilage. Remember mucilage? Do they still sell that stuff? Perhaps with all my tissues, I can create a craft.

I know I said I wasn't going to complain, and I'm not. I'm going to observe:

1) It's a good thing I have rock solid self esteem. Remember I said I was looking cute yesterday? Today, I got whapped with the ugly stick. Bloodshot eyes, swollen glands, red nose, hoarse voice and desire to be dramatic. And the best part is my cowlicks have teamed up to make my bangs into horns.

2) I should be more kind and more understanding to my sick children, because even though they DO have a mother who cares for their every whim when they are ill, she (that would be me) is not always nice about it. As in "Just lay there and wait for the medicine to kick in, and if you MUST whimper, try to do it quietly."

3) There is nothing appetizing in my pantry, nor my fridge, nor my freezer. I don't know what a larder is, but if I had one, it would not have anything worth eating in it either. Besides, cooking for the Three Amigos is a thankless proposition and I don't wanna.

4) My children can emit sounds in such extreme pitches and timbres that pigeons might explode in mid-air. It is a super power. Pshaw! Super ANNOYING power.

5) The next time someone says Ow! or Moooom! I'm pouring a glass of wine. And every time thereafter, I'm taking a big slurping sip. Hey! I just made up a drinking game! Everyone! Join in!

6) Pulling rowdy children into a heap on the couch and reading them a book makes them settle right down. But reading with a stuffy noise and sore throat sucks.

7) I just realized it's Thursday, not Friday. Yay Survivor. Boo, one more weekday to get through. And knowing me (and my hubs) I'll be better by Saturday and he'll be ill. Freakin' Laws of the Circus.

8) If I leave markers on the table, my children will apply war-paint. Washable markers are just that, and nekkid toddler butts are really squishy and cute. Splashing means I will get the floor clean, and better than with the jet-propelled, trigger on the handle, self-lubricating giant maxi-pad on a stick.

9) number 9. number 9. number 9. number 9. (obsure white album reference)

10) My almost 2 year old is sliding merrily down a pile of unfolded laundry, and squealing Whee! Ta-da! I'm going to have to add those phrases to my drinking game cues.