Unabashed Whining

Feel free to move on to another blog in your reader right here.  I'm whining.  I'm pouting.  I'm probably being snarky.

My ungrateful children gave me the plague.  I asked them not to.  Seriously.  When Buttercup came down with it more than a week ago, I told her I loved her and I would take care of her, but that she didn't need to share.  I think she shared.  A few bedtime kisses and some unscheduled coughs and sneezes may have done it.

But maybe it wasn't her.  Maybe Valiant did it after she shared with him.  Yep, 8 days after Buttercup came down with the plague, Valiant was felled.  That was Monday.  Today is Thursday.

Instead of playing around and coming up with a Shoot Me post or working on my Fertilizer Friday post, I caved...right after I finished all the grocery shopping, got the car smogged and registered and picked up a couch for my oldest son, the one who seems to have gone AWOL.  Right when I thought I'd be heaving a sigh of relief and doing a little bit of fun stuff, the sledge hammer hit.  I, too, have succumbed to the plague.

I told the kids they were bad children.  I whined via email to my sister.  I put my pajamas on.  I took drugs.  I feel horrible.  The kids don't seem to have much sympathy.  Valiant put Bean on my chest and she scratched me.  Buttercup generously told me that since I was dying I didn't have to read a chapter of our book at bedtime and, in the meantime, what could she have to eat?

I wonder if I'm already dead and this IS hell and I just don't recognize it because it looks so much like my bedroom.

Is hell being in my bedroom, feeling like I'm going to die, and feeling frustrated because I have so much I want to do?  Maybe.  That is it!  I've solved one of the worlds mysteries:  hell is my bedroom, sick as a dog, stuck playing solitaire because you can't fall asleep but you can't focus to read. 

Glad I figured that out.  Now I can go back to feeling sorry for myself.