Friday, December 28, 2012

Photo Op

The madness has stopped.  In fact, it has pulled the emergency brake and we are now stranded with four flat tires on a cold, icy, deserted, gravel road.  Figuratively speaking that is... please don't send help.  But then again, our house is sick, so maybe a little help won't go unused.

Oh, disregard the previous post about the gingerbread house preventing illness.  They are like cesspools of grime and viruses that you should not swim in.  Or eat.  I blame the gingerbread house for our misery.

My girl fell asleep with her head in a trashcan.  I felt so terrible for her that I didn't even think about taking a picture.  Now, after examining my action/reaction to this gem of a missed photo op, I am hovering with my camera in hand.  If I thought she could consume anything, like, oh, some benadryl, I'd slip some to her just for the photo.  But I don't want a puke action shot.  And I also don't want the dreaded and feared adverse reaction to the sleepy medicine, the hyperactive sick child.

Remember the flight attendant who tried to slip some to the toddler in the apple juice, but forgot to let the tablet dissolve before handing the mom the chunky, drug laced juice?  Well that wasn't me.  First off, I'd be smart enough, if I were to ever drug someone, to let the tablet mix with the drink before handing it over.  Second, and maybe more importantly, I wouldn't drug a child.  Even my own.  Third, I wouldn't even drug an adult, unless it was agreed upon by both parties.  And then there would be a party.  

So I'm waiting for her to fall asleep hugging the can.  Unfortunately, she is now curled up downstairs watching tv.  This isn't bad at all, except if a certain person was trying to get a photo.  And it wouldn't be so terrible of a photo if the couch she was curled up on wasn't right next to the clothes washer/dryer.  I'm not sure about a normal persons house, but if there is a relatively flat surface next to the laundry area, it is typically covered with hopefully freshly laundered laundry.

Laundry.  Say it 10 times and it becomes a sound instead of a word.  A weird sound, and my favorite.
Not the noun.  The noun stinks, sometimes literally, and I hate it.

Because she is next to a mountain of clothes, even if I get the picture, I wouldn't post it for shame of a messy room that will follow me forever.  Descriptions are one thing, but the imagination can't hold a candle to the actual pile of laundry that is my couch.

So if you do send help, make sure they can fold and put away.

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