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So I am going on week two of feeling mis-er-able. Let's just say that Cholraseptic is my bitch and I am seriously considering constructing a pleather leopard tool belt/ medicine holder /fanny pack to wear about my waist, because, fuck it, why bother anyway. Hey there is nothing more convenient a roll of toilet paper secured to your waist. And it just-keeps-getting-better because when I woke up this morning and my left eye was glued shut. If that doesn't buy me a one-way ticket to Snotville, USA than I don't know what does. I am DONE!

So as you can see this weekend was a bust as was last week and I am going on day eight of a "wouldn't wish this on my worse enemy sickness." And although I tried to get out of the house, sporting the "mind over matter" mantra in my head, the overwhelming urge to sit on my couch and watch the same episode of Housewives of Beverly Hills again and again takes over.

At about 4 o'clock on Sunday after a completely busted weekend, Cheese comes to me and asks for a bike ride, the same bike ride I have promised all week, the one where we ride down to Starbucks and share a hot chocolate maybe a piece of cheesecake. Of course, a bike ride being one of the last things I want to do, I ask what her second best thing she could do today would be. She says she would like to go to the store and buy some canned spray cheese.

So I do what any sick, lazy and overly guilty mom would do on a Sunday afternoon, I take her to buy cheese in a can along with a rotisserie chicken for dinner and my third bottle of Nyquil.

Anyway, on our way to the car after purchasing the loot, Cheese skipping the entire time (I swear you would have thought I bought her a new kitten) she opens the can and proceeds to shoots a three inch glob of processed cheese all over my Coach purse.

Cheese-1 Mom-0