I'm Up, I'm Up, or I Would Do Some Work if I Could Find My Desk

Being deathly ill ensures that it's your one morning during the week to get up at 6 AM and drive through the fog-shrouded moors to get the kids to school in time for pancakes.

Hamster Check, Day 3: Dead? No. Zombie? Undetermined.

My desk looks like London during the Blitz. I need a manservant. Or a flamethrower. A manservant armed with a flamethrower.

Being still ill, I have have supplied myself with a jar of pickled ginger, ginger/lemongrass tea, Luden's cough drops (I had a coupon) and a half-gallon of orange juice, which I will drink from a tiny glass and not straight out of the carton, because we're not barbarians. I have my flannel slippers and the space heater is on under the desk. Provided it does not set the paper-covered desk on fire, I should be good to go.

Whether is was the vodka or the off-brand nyquil, I dreamt last night that my house was filled with otters. I guess there are worse things. I also dreamed that we had two Christmas trees and Donal Logue was rifling through my kitchen cabinets. Then I dreamed that I adopted a child that had been raised by wild animals. Although how you could tell whether my real children have been raised by wild animals or not is a good question.

New sign on the Piggly Wiggly door this morning: "Please Remove Hoods and Sunglasses Before Entering Store. Thank You!" Really? Now all I can think about is finding a hoodie and sunglasses and going back to the Piggly Wiggly.

Watched Terriers last night before drifting into an otter-filled sleep, and I don't know which was more heartbreaking, watching Hank struggle to not fall off the wagon and not wreck his ex-wife's wedding, or Britt find out that the woman he adores has casually been unfaithful. Also, my life would be so much better if I had a Winnebago filled with techno-squids at my beck and call. And a traveling mariachi band.