And Lo, the Pale Rider Departs

Okay, so we've run the course of antibiotics on Cookie now. She's much better, but still has a mild cough and hacks some stuff up from time to time, but it's nothing serious. Tank has just his cough left (and is finally beginning to get it sunk through his stubborn little skull that it's socially accepted to cover one's mouth when spewing germ-laden spittle upon an audience whilst coughing), but I'm thinking of getting him his own bedside humidifier to see if that doesn't help clear his cough up. In fact, I think everyone is getting their own bedside humidifiers because my wife has fallen in love with my little bedside buddy (no, not that one...she fell in love with that eight years ago...heh heh heh) and we don't want to surrender it to the children.

Wait, where the hell was I before I went off on my sexually charged innuendo? Right. The state of wellness around my abode. My wife never came down with the Ick; I think this is mainly because I stayed on my right side at night so that I didn't blow germ-saturated breath in her face all night long while we slept. Also, I think a large part of it is because I sent her away on Friday night last week to go drink with her friends so that she could escape the den of pestilence, free herself of the clingy children, and perhaps drown a few bacteria in whiskey. Or maybe she's not the kind of pansy who gives in to the sicknesses like the rest of us. I kind of liked option a or b better, myself.

As for me, I still have some muke issues, but I'm here to tell you something, folks. Remember how I referenced Diet Dr. Pepper as the Panacea of the Masses? I was wrong. That might be the Elixir of Life, but as far as Panaceas go, Robitussin is the way to go. Or, at least, the cheaper Target knock-off is the way to go. This stuff was like the sweat off Zeus' balls. I'd take a shot and instantly began to feel better. I could breathe without wheezing, I could blow my nose without threat of aneurysm, the sun shone brighter, sugar tasted sweeter and I farted rainbows. Actual, honest-to-God, pot of gold at the end rainbows. Fucking. Aye.
I'm still downing it every four hours. I'm not addicted. No. I'm not. It's just that the Precious needs me to drinks it every four hourses. Tricksy little hobbitses aren't going to steals it from us. Whoa. Sorry, there. I think the only problem with the Target knock-off of Robitussin is that it makes you go a little batshit crazy in the head. I mean, for a while on Saturday evening, it looked like Notre Dame had a functioning offense and defense, and we all know that's a fucking pipe dream.

Also, I highly recommend the cranberry-flavored ginger ale, not because it's a magical cure-all tonic, it just tastes really fucking good.
So now, hopefully, we're through the worst part of the illnesses. At least now three of us aren't lying around wondering if this is the end and telling Elizabeth that we're coming home. The Durham County Health Inspector came by and took down the Quarantine sign, so I take that as a step in the right direction. Although, it is still quite comical when all three of us cough at almost the exact same time. My home is beginning to smell like Lysol, bleach and pyrethrin (don't ask) and much less like a charnel house, which is a definite good thing. Unfortunately, my wife's pity has run out and now I am expected to become a functioning adult in the household with responsibilities, duties and chores. Damn.

And no, pervert, I still haven't had a chance to celebrate my anniversary. We might find a spare, disease-free moment sometime around February in between all the cleaning.