Blargh, or Not So Random Thoughts Hopped Up On Cold Medicine

One of my hideous children has infected me with the disease du la semaine. Filthy little germ factories. I'm prepared now to see if the old adage is right -- okay it's not an adage, but I'm pretending -- that vodka, limeade, off-brand nyquil and six hours sleep will kill a cold. I don't hold out hope.

Woke yesterday to a smear of blood on the kitchen floor, indicating that the remaining hamster, the evil one, had escaped the surly bonds of its cage and met up with Spike the Cat. Found said hamster, who was not dead, but tres disgruntled. Which proves that the evil, narcoleptic hamster is indestructible. Two days and still going strong. Either that or she has turned into Zombie Hamster and will soon be coming for our tender brains.

I would be much happier if I had my own horn section that could just follow me around, providing theme music, or emphasis when I speak. Barring that, a mariachi band. That would be cool.

The fact that my computer went kablooey and I had to hijack the kids' computer has put me horribly behind on work, the kind of work that pays the bills, not the kind of work that just makes me feel guilty and worthless and vaguely suicidal. I even have five blog posts mapped out -- full of zombies and Irish music -- that I'm itching to do and have no time for yet.

The kids' winter schedule of activities and obligations has taken shape, making all carefully-balanced previous calenders of said events and obligations obsolete and quaint in a sad, pathetic way. I now see that this weekend will necessitate the building of a time machine.

In what could be either happy or sad news, the S/O and I have the opportunity for a date this weekend. A real date, the kind that involves a restaurant that doesn't offer a plastic cup filled with broken crayons along with the menu. And a show, a real show, like an off-off-Broadway show, where patrons will wear clothes without unnoticed holes in them and they will laugh gaily with the sound of tinkling crystal.  What is the sad part, you ask? At this rate, I will be bedraggled and consumptive, like an extra from Les Miserables, and people will throw pennies at me as I slump in front of the venue. Here's hoping the vodka and cold medicine work.