Currently, we are in hell. This level of the inferno involves a Diva with bronchitis/ear infection/side order of pneumonia and a prescription for steriods, among other things. Have you ever seen an almost three-year-old with 'roid rage? Come on over. It's a blast. Yesterday, after screaming at me to get out of her room, she then demanded I stop breathing because it irritated her. Today, I sent her to day care simply for her own protection. She is more or less well, just really, really, really touchy. And angry. They don't tell you about this stuff in the parenting books. Fuckers.
Also in this particular hell is the Hub, who has the same nasty illness and is trying to go into tech for a show. And, at about 3 a.m. as I was convincing the Diva to stop kicking me and go to sleep already, I noticed that my throat was all scratchy and I was coughing. Woo. Oh, and that I still have a book to finish very soon.
Today my only goal is to write. My hope for the next 48 hours is that I won't have to do any emergency laundry that is stained by some bodily fluid (or, barring that, no more vomit laundry) or practice my meditation while the Diva screams at me for hours on end. I'd also like to spend five consecutive hours asleep in my own bed, but I'm not too fussy on that last bit. I'd love to sleep for five consecutive hours anywhere, at this point.
I can't help but think that this is all some divine retribution for going out of town and sleeping in a nice hotel room. But I'm also getting a little delusional and feverish, so this may be a symptom of that, more than of a latent Catholicism rearing its mitred head.
In other news, a new Saucy column is live. I'll miss Sara Moulton.