She has the flu

“She” being me, of course, and the “flu” probably being more of a bad cold.  Not enough to make me stay home with the covers over my head, but enough to make me sound like I’m hacking up a lung every few minutes.

I thought I was going to escape my annual chest cold this year, and segue right into spring allergies instead.  But there’s some nasty bug making the rounds at the office, and I seem to have acquired it.  Maybe it’ll last long enough to get me past the spring blooms.  I can’t suffer from seasonal allergies if I’m already swimming in a pool of viral goo, right?  Please, can this be true?  I don’t mind one or the other, but both would just be too cruel.

Still, feeling like watered-down crap has its benefits.  I’ve been deliberately going to bed early and sleeping in as much as possible, so the time change didn’t make such a big mess with my internal clock.  And I let myself have a little down-time this weekend while my kiddo was with her father.  I caught up on the entire TiVo queue, AND half of NetFlix.  Because I’m biologically incapable of just sitting still, this meant I did some half-hearted work in the form of grooming the hairy dogs and prepping the labels for my next club mailing. Both things I can do slowly, from the comfort of my couch.

A Gente de Minha Terra

I’m hoping, with that intro title, to get lots of Portuguese spam.  If you’re going to solicit spam, I always say, get the kind you don’t understand.  It’s so much harder to give away all your money to ousted Nigerian officials when you can only pick out a word or two of their heartfelt pleas.

Which doesn’t explain why I’m such a sucker for dogs and cats, since you’d think the utter lack of a verbal language would render it next to impossible for them to bend me to their will.  And yet they do, quite often.  Some of them aren’t even very nice about it.  The poor Nigerians use every flowery courtesy in the English language, and not a one of them has ever pooped on my bed, but it’s still Dogs: 55,017, Nigerians: 0.

Of course, mostly the dogs aim low.  A dog biscuit, maybe some leftovers, an extra blankie on cold nights.  I trust them to never raid my checking account, not because I think they’re above that kind of thing, but because none of them can drive, or buy stuff on eBay.    My oldest did have a fondness for twenty-dollar bills and my ex-husband’s American Express Gold Card.  But all she did was run around with money flapping in her mouth like a little green streamer, and put a hole or two in the credit card.  There was no actual financial damage.

They would work for me if  I’d let them.  Unfortunately, they have few marketable skills, other than the same skills you see listed as requirements for the girls on “Millionaire Matchmaker”.  They’ve got the silky, touchable hair.  They’re slim and leggy.  They are smart, but not smarter than me, they’re excellent listeners, and they would gladly move with me if I had to for my job.  The never ask me for anything outright, but graciously accept all my gifts.

I suppose this makes me their sugar mama.  Cool.