Sniffle Five

So I'm staying home today with the little guy. He's fine, just a bit of a temperature, runny nose, glassy eyes, pale faced and doughy.

Not the kind of symptoms that would keep anyone from really doing anything, but they pack 32 kids in a classroom made for 20 and I'm a reponsible adult.

He doesn't like missing school, and I don't blame him, cause the level of homework that follows is irrational. That . . . and I'm boring company.

I don't do anything fun at all.

Typing typing typing shower lunch music typing.

And I take over the computer for long stretches. And I stare motionlessly for long enough stretches of time that he has to tap me on the shoulder to make sure I'm breathing.

Now when I was a kid, staying home from school was awesome.

I'd take sickness over health in a heart beat . . . 

For starters . . . 

All day ME time:
The entire couch was mine. The entire TV was mine. What ever was in the fridge . . . all mine.

Next was a bellly full of soup, juice, and NyQuil: 
I don't know what it is, but the combination of those things creates such a sleepy cozy day dream opium infused level of warmth and relaxation. I'm too big for that now. Tolerances are too high. But getting back to my inner city roots; That shit was dope.

Game shows:
This was the 80's so we didn't only get network television, we got like twelve other channels too. Now I'm not saying there was anything good on. There is never anything GOOD on. But daytime television is, how shall I put this, exceptionally bad. The soaps, obvious, the home shopping network, kinda scary, there was some sporting event, reruns of even older TV, and of course, gameshows. There's an entire gameshow network now, where you can watch all gameshows all the time, but back then, whoo whee boy, thems was good fun right there.

Hot Baths:
I own pasta bowls that are bigger than my current bathtub, but the old bathtubs were apparently made from old roman designs and could fit six reasonably attractive people. At nine I could virtually do laps from one end to the other and it stayed piping hot for hours. The unquentiable steam would roll up in my nostrils and my brain pan and the snot would melt like butter. Follow that up with some soup and tylenol and you might understand all the lyrics to Magical Mystery Tour.

Honestly . . . need I say more?

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