Skrip - tyur' - i - ent: adj. Possessing the violent desire to write.



The Scientist gave me hell for not posting in a week… but man, I’ve been busy! And when I’m busy at work, I’m sorry to say that it's the Internet who suffers. Because writing at home? With the girls running around? Forget it.

I’m especially busy right now because I’m taking Thursday and Friday of this week off. A fun vacation getaway, you ask? Nope. We’re having the basement waterproofed, which will hopefully do away with our water problems forever.

We’re having one of those internal waterproofing systems installed. Basically, it works like this: a crew jackhammers a trough all around the inside of the basement walls, to a couple feet down. Then they lay perforated pipe, cover it with gravel, then re-cement overtop that. All this pipe runs to a sump pump, which will quietly chug away in the corner. The idea being that any water that tries to seep in from under the foundation (where our water has been coming from) hits the pipe first and is magically whisked away. Hey, here’s a photo of something similar.

Soooo… Thursday morning, bright and early, burly men with jackhammers are going to descend into my basement and, by all accounts, make an ungodly amount of noise. The guy who sold us the system said, “I’ll be honest with you, the first six hours are really rough.”

Speaking of which, here’s some unsolicited advice to sales guys worldwide: if you sell a product or service that isn’t widely known for it’s honest salesmen, like say, aluminum siding or basement waterproofing, it’s probably not the best approach to pepper your sales pitch with the phrase, “Well, I’ll be honest with you…”

Guy who sold us the system said that probably 12 times in the half hour we talked. I know it’s just a verbal tic, the equivalent to saying, “um” or “y’know” -- but it still bugged the hell out of me. Every time he said it I thought, “Oh, okay, now you’re being honest with me? Before, not so much?”

Anyway, I’ve been busting ass to get the basement cleaned up for the decimation that awaits it; moving boxes and shelves and various and sundry piles of crap away from the walls. I thought the basement was disorganized before, now it’s a disaster.

But, right now it’s dry. And after this weekend, it should stay that way.

I hope.




#195 In which our hero plays poker rather badly, expect for one notable hand.

Last summer The Scientist and I met a couple down the street. They have two little boys about the same ages as our girls. We made the effort to get to know these people a little, thinking it would be nice of we (the adults) could chat with someone while they (the children) played together. However, after one BBQ it was sorta evident that we didn’t have a lot in common, especially considering that this couple was about 10 years younger than we are.

But, it’s not like we hate they (nor presumably, do they hate us) and we’ll probably get together some other time. Matter of fact, the guy invited me to his semi-regular poker game. I’m not a big poker player by any stretch, but I’ve played lots of penny-ante with my family over vacations, so I at least understand the ranking of hands.

So, last Friday I walked down the street to the big poker tournament. I made sure this guy knew I wasn’t any sort of expert, and matter of fact, had never really played Texas Hold ‘Em, the game of the evening. He assured me it was a nice, friendly game with players of all skill levels.

That was the first lie.

I arrive and there’s about 15 guys milling about in the basement. There are three tables set up. Almost everyone knows everyone else. Turns out they know each other because they’ll all in a poker club and play together three times a week. So right away I see that they guys are way more serious about poker than I am. Half the guys listened to their iPods during play, presumably so as not to be distracted.

And honestly, I suck in these situations. Typically, if I don’t know anyone, I just keep my mouth shut. I sometimes wish I was that guy who could strike up a conversation with anyone at any time, but I’m not. So I’m being the big wall flower and watching people set up the tables.

Well, that is to say, I was watching the person set up the tables. There was one guy who was in charge of running the tournament. And the second I saw him in action, I realized I knew him.

I mean, I didn’t really know him, his name or anything like that, rather I knew his type. He rushed around between the “check-in” table, his laptop, and the other room where the third table was set up. Everything he did and said was exaggerated; he was clearly giddy with anticipation. When I was playing role-playing games, this was the guy who had read every rule book, owned every expansion set, had read all the novelizations of the most popular scenarios and, most importantly, could quote you every rule, chapter and verse. It was clear that poker was important to him, that he defined himself in some fashion by his knowledge and skill of the game.

Not to bad-mouth the guy… I mean, I’m a big dork about some stuff, too. My reaction to him was probably exactly the same as most people’s reaction to me when I go off on a tangent about comic books. That all said, the guy was at my table to start, and it only helped me when he gave a running commentary about the game (“All right, $5 to you; thank you; pot’s right; action is HERE!”)

When I came aboard for this thing, I was thinking it would be a bunch of guys playing cards, bullshitting about whatever, and drinking. I was right about two of the three: they were playing cards and drinking. But the conversation at the table concerned one topic and one topic only: poker. Exciting hands from pervious games. Good hands that had just been played. Professional poker players and how they play.

I, of course, could add nothing to this conversation. Honestly, I could hardly follow the lingo, let alone add anything relevant. Whenever the conversation veered briefly into areas that I could speak on (iPods were discussed for about 30 seconds) I had already been sitting there mum for forty-five minutes, so it felt awkward to break the silence.

For my original $30 I got $250 in chips. I had managed to win a few hands and still had a reasonable stack after an hour (thanks in no small part to the advice of my buddy Dave, who’s a big poker player. Here’s the strategy that got me that far: “Play A-A, K-K or A-K. Throw everything else away.”)

However, I was seeing people win pots with a low pair, or just an ace at times. So, when I got a pair of eights I figured, “What the hell. I’m going to play this hand.”

Now, here’s the big difference between me and everyone else at the table: they’re all looking at the cards on the table and in their hand and figuring percentages: I have a 30% chance of picking up another heart to fill out my flush, but the guy on the bullet is betting his he has the straight, so I’ll limp in and see how he reacts… etc. Here’s what I’m thinking: Huh, pair of eights. That doesn’t suck. Maybe I’ll pick up another pair, or a third eight. That would be great.

I’m not even considering what anyone else has. So the betting goes around and a couple guys go all-in (that is to say, all the money they have is in the pot). Including me, there’s four guys playing. Once these guys are all-in, there’s no more betting so we all lay down our cards. I really hate this part… I prefer it when people aren’t all-in, which means that we don’t have to show our cards until the final card is revealed. Then, if I’ve been beat, I can just throw away my cards without showing anyone. This means that I don’t have to reveal what an idiot I was in continuing to bet on a hand that had no chance of winning.

But anyway, everyone’s cards are on the table. The first three cards on the table are reveled (the “flop”), and it includes a pair of sixes. So I’m thinking, Hey, two pair, that’s cool. Except, there’s already two pair in someone else’s hand that beats mine. And the two other guys are working on flushes, which would also beat my hand.

The fourth card (the “turn”) is revealed, and it doesn’t help me; but it does further one guy’s flush, I think. The guy next to me looks at my cards and says, “This guy’s totally dominated.” Eh, thanks, appreciate the vote of confidence.

At this point people are standing up, and there’s some excitement in the air. I don’t know what the odds are of getting the card I want, but I figure it’s something like 1 in 52 (I’m sure I’m way off here). Finally, the last card (the “river”) is turned over. It’s an eight. So I have three eights and a pair of sixes: full house. I think wow, I got an eight, that’s cool, I win.

Everyone else at the table completely loses their shit.

“What the fuck?!”
“Holy shit! What a suck out! I can’t believe you pulled an eight!”
“What are the odds?!”
“I’ve been playing every week for three years and I’ve never seen something like that!”
“Why were you even in? Did you really think you were ahead at any point?”
“Hey, everybody, come look at this shit!”

They lay out everyone’s hands and take a picture of the table.

Of course, I don’t really get the excitement. I won, it was a long-shot, but… all the cards are random, right? I had a chance, even if it wasn’t a good chance. Honestly, everyone is so excited about my hand that I start to act more thrilled than I really was. I stand up, shake my head like “Holy shit I never thought my carefully considered play would actually work!” and run my fingers through my hair.

This play busts out three people from the table and leaves me with a huge stack of chips. Now I’m the chip leader at the table. If I knew what the hell I was doing, I’m sure I could have dominated everyone else with the shear amount of money I had.

But I don’t. The one time I try to buy a pot a guy yells at me; if I had folded instead of forcing him out, he would have beat the guy to my right who was all-in, and he would have been out, so why the hell would I force him out? This, of course, assumes a level of strategy that is well beyond me.

At the end of the hour they re-gigger the tables. A few other guys go out, and I’m at the final table. There’s nine of us; the final six players will end up with some money (real money, that is: #6 gets $33 and #1 gets something like $250). At this point I have $680 in chips, and I think I’m the second highest chip total at the table. If I was smart, I could just fold every single hand and still end up in the money.

Of course, I’m not smart.

I’m still kicking myself in the ass about it. I play a few hands, and since the bets are around $100 now, I quickly lose half my stack. Then I start to worry and think that I’ve got to win a couple of make back that money. And naturally, I don’t win. I’m the second guy knocked out of the finals, much to no-ones surprise, I’m sure.

I get my coat, say goodnight to no-one in particular. Everyone is so intent on the game that no-one marks my leaving.

It costs me $30 and I get a fun story to tell. And honestly, I’m not even telling it well… I think it was sixes and eights that I had, but I’m not one hundred percent sure. I couldn’t tell you what other hand had me beat on the table. However, I’m sure that everyone else at the table could tell you, card-for-card, how it went down.

And I’m equally sure that when they tell the story, it begins with “This first-time idiot is playing with us…”



One of the benefits of living in Cleveland is easy access to Lake Erie; a truly impressive body of water. See?

Gotcha! That's not Lake Erie, of course... that's my fucking backyard. This flooding business is really, really getting old. Up until now it's just something that we've lived it. It was inconvenient, yes, but didn't ruin our lives or anything. That is, until it came to a head a couple of months ago:

I've already chronicled the flooding night; and it's happened once more since then. Needless to say, it's been top of mind for The Scientist and I. We've been collecting opinions, estimates and looks of sympathy. Last week, we had another plumber out with a fiber optic camera to run down our footer drains.

Now, in case you were like me two months ago and had no idea what a footer drain was or does, here's a crash course on how it works (at least, at my house): the footer is a perferated pipe that rings the house. Any ground water that seeps in from the surface is supposed to run down the outside of the foundation and into this pipe, which ties into the main drain water line (that is, the big one maintained by the city). There's a second system that the gutters drain into, which also ties into the main drain water line. Our gutters work, our footers do not.

So, when it rains all the water that hits the house is dutifully wisked away with nary a care. But, the water that hits the ground pools up (due to the pitiful drainage of our yard) and soaks into the earth. This is made about a BILLION times worse due to the fact that our yard is the lowest part of the three properties that surround us... so everyone's water drains into our yard. This water makes it down to the footers, and that's where everything goes wrong. Since they aren't draining like they should (or, at all) the water goes the only place it can -- into our basement.

I don't know if we just got lucky the first year and a half or if something has finally shit the bed for good in our drainage system, but this water intrusion is all new. When the plumber told us he couldn't get the scope into the footers because they were clogged or broken or both, that was just the beginning of the bad news.

Replacing the footers would involve digging to the bottom of the foundation around the entire house and replacing all the pipe, backfilling with gravel and packing all the dirt back. This would be stupidly expensive, in the neighborhood of tens of thousands of dollars. Hearing this, The Scientist and I both started to crap... until the plumber told us or another solution.

The sump pump.

Basically, they dig a trench around the inside of the wall, lay pipe, cover it with gravel and re-cement it so you can't tell it's there. All that pipe runs to a sump pump hidden in a shallow shaft in the corner. This pump can move 90 gallons of water a minute, so it's a pretty beefy system.

But, all that digging and fuss isn't cheap. It's not tens of thousands, but it's enough that we have to serious consider a second mortgage. Or, we hope that the new drainage work in the back yard solves the problem.

Did I mention recently that we've only been in this goddamn house for two years?

Anyway, we continue to weigh the options. But one thing is for sure: running downstairs every hour during a rainstorm to see if the floor is covered with flowing water has lost its charm. We're going to do something, and soon.

Stay tuned, and stay dry.


#194 In which our hero discusses several things, including his body's impending revolt and a nudity-free gathering.

Several things:

Thing the first: my body is trying to kill me.

I’m not generally a New Year’s resolutions kind of guy, and this year is no exception. However, there is one thing that I’d like to do… get in better shape. (I’d also like to reduce the number of ellipses I use in my writing… but that seems unlikely). This is something that’s always been in the back of my head on my unwritten “good thing to do” list (up there with taking a daily vitamin and washing my car more often); but I’ve never really done anything about it. After Macey was born, I tried to spur myself into action. The Scientist (having just birthed a baby) was pretty out of shape, and was sporting a nice, round post-baby gut. I figured I should work to lose my gut before she lost her gut. I didn’t say that out loud, party because I’m not a total idiot and I know that calling my wife fat, even in the most roundabout fashion, is foolish; but more so, I think, because I feared I might lose that race.

And lost it I have.

Little more than a year later The Scientist is back to her fighting weight, more or less, and I’m still where I started. I think what really motivates me at the core is the fear that one day she’s going to see me coming out of the shower and say, “Hey, y’know what, fatty? I can do better” and leave me. So I’m doing something about it. I have a plan, even. Here it is:

Monday: yoga
Tuesday: weights
Wednesday: cardio
Thursday: weights
Friday: running
Saturday: weights or cardio
Sunday: rest (what? I’m not Superman)

I got this awesome home gym for the weights part and, come on, it’s right in the basement, so why not work out? Right?

After putting it all together (a mental workout, at least) I fooled around with it a bit, but hadn’t yet really exercised. But, last Saturday, I put my plan into action. I worked out my upper body and abs, and finished the workout with 30 crunches. The following Monday I went to my yoga class, and felt pretty good about it.

Then, Monday evening, my body said, “Wait just a damn minute! Are you serious about this working out bullshit? We’re gonna put the kibosh that that garbage right now!” I woke up at 3am nauseous, and sure I was going to puke. I even took the position in front of the bowl -- but to no avail. I wasn’t running a fever, but I had the shakes something fierce. I thought maybe it had to do with all the chips and cookies I ate right before bed (what? The nutrition part of the program is down the line) and tried to get some more sleep.

The next morning I felt no better. After calling off work and laying in bed all day, I felt only marginally better. And I finally started to run a fever.

The good news is that by the next morning I was much better. I went to work and was only a little fuzzy-headed. I am, however, super-pissed that I had to burn one of my three sick days within the first two weeks of the year. Stupid body!

Thing the second: my newspaperboy-woman still sucks.

The temperature has dropped considerably in these parts. While it was still 50s-60s last week, this week it’s 20s-30s. Cold enough that the mud puddle that is my front yard has finally frozen.

So naturally, when I went to get my newspaper this morning, it was perfectly placed in the center of my driveway. And I mean perfectly. It straddled the dividing line exactly, and was canted at a friendly angle towards the house, as if to say “Good morning! Here’s your daily paper!” Of course, what I heard was, “Here ya go, asshole! No reason to chuck this into the yard until it thaws into quicksand again.”

Someone in comments suggested I call the newspaper and complain; a completely rational suggestion which had never even crossed my mind. I had thought about getting up super early and confronting her on the street, but never thought of picking up the telephone. This is probably because of my deep-rooted Midwestern mindset… I mean, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.

I know, I’m pathetic.

Thing the last: There was no nudity at the Christmas party.

It’s safe to say that the agency that employs me is pretty relaxed, shall we say. I mean, free beer and dunk tanks aren't exactly the hallmarks of hard-assed taskmasters. So when talk started about the upcoming Christmas party, I wasn't surprised to hear that it had been a raucous affair in the past. There was talk about young AEs getting liquored up and sloppily kissing their bosses, strip shows on table tops and streaking.

Yes, streaking.

Apparently, one of the AEs (a man, I’m sad to say) at the party four years ago thought it was a good idea to take off all his clothes and run through the party. This man was not fired, another sign of the liberal nature of the company.

So I was fully prepared for craziness. The Scientist and I got a babysitter for the evening, put on our fancy duds and headed down to drink in the madness.

And while it was a fun party, with good food and an open bar, there was no craziness of which to speak. Any other place I’ve ever worked I would have walked away saying, “Wow, that was a great party!” Instead, I had to shake my head and say, “That’s all there is?”

Nevertheless, several good things did come of it. Most importantly, I got to introduce The Scientist around, and show off just how awesome she is. My favorite moment of the evening: she and I are standing around chatting, and That Guy comes over with this wife. Now, remember, all I’ve heard about this woman is what a bitch she is, so I’m expecting the worst. But, far from being a harpy, she’s actually a sweet, soft-spoken and rather attractive woman. We congratulate her on the pregnancy, and chat a bit. That Guy starts to lament about the lack of sex, and how all that talk about hot pregnancy sex he’s heard about turned out to be bullshit. As he walks away, The Scientist turns to me and says, “Dude, I wouldn’t fuck him either.”

And remember that woman I hate for no good reason? I pointed her out to The Scientist, who used her scientific training and years of study to help me understand why I felt this way. Her conclusion? “She has an ape-face.”

I don’t know if that completely explains my feelings for my co-worker, but it perfectly demonstrates why I feel the way I do toward my wife.


#193 In which our hero writes about two things currently vexing him: the basement and the paperboy, not necessarily in that order.

My basement flooded again. Well, that is to say, we got water, running water, down there. "Flooded" makes it should like there was a foot of standing water, which isn’t the case. And, since I never removed the sandbags from last go-round, no damage was done. I found myself remarkably calm about the entire situation. Ho-hum, water in the basement again, la-la-de-dah!

I don’t even want to deal with it. We are, of course, because we’re not idiots and we know that we have to make some major changes or things are just going to get worse. We already have a crack in the foundation due, no doubt, to the pressure of the water on the outside of the wall. This crack was there when we bought the house, and maybe we are idiots for still buying it… but the home inspector told us it wasn’t anything to worry about. Clearly the owners before us had done some drainage work to address it. But we see now, with equal clarity, that it wasn’t enough.

So we’re making the big decisions, and are going to fix this fucker for good. Extra drainage in the back yard, two drains in the lawn itself, additional drainage around the one side, and grading the entire she-bang away from the house like it should be.

As you might guess, this will not be inexpensive.

We’ve been collecting opinions and quotes to address the problem -- and we’re received a wide variety of both. I’m hoping that we can actually have the work done this month, before it decides to snow again. Seems like now is the time, since it’s crazy-warm for January in Cleveland. Of course, there were flurries on my way to work this morning, so we might get screwed on scheduling.

The Scientist is freaking out over the money, of course. We’re probably going to have to refinance or get a second mortgage or something… honestly, she deals with our finances and for as much as she takes the time to explain things like this to me carefully, I don’t feel the need to really understand it. Sorry honey… it’s not that I don’t care, it’s only that I trust you completely to make the right decision, the one that won’t kill us financially long-term. And Lord knows you’re better with money than me.

The other reason I’m not overly worried is that I don’t have a choice. We HAVE to do something, and whatever we do is going to involve money we don’t have on hand. So we go further into debt. If it could be avoided I would try hard to do it… but short of winning the lottery, I don’t see any other options. Hmm… maybe I could rob a bank

But that’s not what I wanted to write about today. What I really wanted to write about is my jackass paperboy.

First, it’s not a boy at all, it’s a grown woman. Once or twice when I happened to be up at 6am I’ve seen her car, slowing prowling through the neighborhood; a disembodied arm chucking papers out the window. I wouldn’t even have known it was a woman, except for the holiday/please-give-me-money card that appears in my paper every December. Maybe I’m a jerk, but I don’t really feel obligated to tip my paperbo--, er, person. Maybe if it really was a kid; waking up at 5am to bag papers, peddling his little heart with a giant sling of papers over his shoulder, trying to save a couple bucks toward college. But this is a grown up, and she uses her car… aside from getting up early, that job sounds pretty easy. Then again, what do I know? I’ve never delivered papers.

But here’s the thing. As you know, my front yard is a giant mud pit right now due to all the construction. And that fucking paperlady, without exception, tosses my paper in the middle of the mud every morning. The big, wide, clear, dry (and I might even say inviting) driveway is less than two feet away… but she throws it in the mud. I’m probably paranoid, but I’m sure she does it on purpose because I didn’t tip her. Why else would she avoid the (inviting) driveway and aim for the mud?! Come on! It’s not like I’m asking you to put the damn thing on my doorstep. I just don’t want to have to step in the mud to fetch the daily news, y’know?

Maybe it would have been worth a $15 tip to avoid this frustration. Hmm… there might be a lesson in there for me, somewhere.


#192 In which our hero puts something smaller than his elbow into his ear; a practice of which his mother would not approve.

Y’know that douchebag who’s always walking around with his iPod, his queer “ear buds” jammed in his head like he’s trying to drown out the voices? Can’t even get up and go to the bathroom without making sure he has 600+ songs right at his fingertips? The guy you have to practically slug in the arm to get him to notice you when you walk into his office?

I have become that douchebag.

Man, I love my new iPod Shuffle. It is truly the awesome. I would play with it all day long if I could. But that’s the problem… I can’t listen to music while I write. I just can’t do it. I find it too distracting; I’m trying to write a sentence about the benefits of some new diaper and all I can hear is The Vapors telling me they’re turning Japanese. So I don’t listen to it when I’m working.

So instead, I listen to it at Every. Other. Opportunity. For the first few days I had it clipped to my shirt, ear buds in place, even if I wasn’t actively listening to it at the moment. This would look silly expect that everyone at the agency has an iPod already (maybe not the ultra-super-cool Shuffle, like me, but they have one) so I’m a johnny-come-lately. But I’ve stopped that; it wasn’t productive, and it made my ears hurt. Guess I need to build up some ear calluses before I can really enjoy this thing to the fullest.

And iTunes! Holy shit! How have I lived 38 years without iTunes?! I’m been pulling songs off my CDs as fast as I can… but there’s plenty of stuff that I only owned on tape (or, ulp, vinyl) that I’ve been rediscovering. I had a buddy in high school who made me dozens of punk/alternative mix tapes, and I’ve been going through those (at least, the one I still have) and pulling songs from iTunes. It has been an amazing trip down memory lane. How amazing? you ask? Let me give you a sample of the current contents of my Shuffle:

The Metro (Berlin)
Mexican Radio (Wall of Voodoo)
Dum Dum (Butthole Surfers)
Sunglasses at Night (Corey Hart)
99 Red Ballons (Nina)
Punk Rock Girl (The Dead Milkmen)
Come on Eileen (Dexy’s Midnight Runners)
Supernaut (1000 Homo DJs)
Life in a Northern Town (the Dream Academy)
Relax (Frankie Goes to Hollywood)
I Sit on Acid (Lords of Acid)
Jesus Built My Hotrod (Ministry)
Sex on Wheelz (My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult)
Flash (Queen)
Institutionalized (Suicidal Tendencies)
The Queen and the Soldier (Suzanne Vega)
Ana Ng (They Might Be Giants)

And that’s just old stuff! What’s new? you ask? Well, let me tell you!

Right Through You (Alanis Morissette)
Sk8er Boi (Avril Lavigne)
I Will Survive (Cake)
Zombie (Cranberries)
Lose Yourself (Eminem)
Inside Out (Eve 6)
Boulevard of Broken Dreams (Green Day)
The Beautiful People (Marilyn Manson)
Popular (Nada Surf)
Hey Baby (No Doubt)
Hey Ya! (OutKast)
Get the Party Started (P!nk)
Closing Time (Semisonic)
What I Got (Sublime)

And much, much more! I’ve got six hours of music, and the damn thing isn’t even halfway full! I am fully in the iPod cult. I’m even considering putting an Apple sticker (thoughtfully included in my Shuffle packaging) on the back of my car. Seriously.

My iPod turned me into a douchebag. Steve Jobs, if you’re reading, feel free to use that as your new tagline.


“Where’s Lily?”
“She’s not in her bed?”
“I didn’t see her.”
Since it’s my job to get our eldest dressed in the morning, I go into her room, fully expecting to find her where I left her five minutes ago, wrapped up in her blankets. Instead, her bed is empty. Then I hear this from behind the closet door.
“Daddy, don’t come in here.”
“Honey, why are you in the closet?”
“Because I didn’t want you... to come in… and I was hiding… and so I... I… and I’m clothes.”
“You’re clothes?”
“Yes, I’m clothes.”



Hello, Internet. I’m going to make this quick because, in all likelihood, I don’t have much time left.

As previously noted, The Scientist is sick. And I mean, really sick. It would appear that several different maladies conspired to mug her all at once, and she’s been pretty much laywayed since Christmas morning. First it was an extremely painful sore throat. So she went to the doctor to make sure she didn’t have strep. She didn’t. She was told that it was just a virus going around. She had our doctor prescribe her antibiotics just to be safe; after all, I just had a sinus infection not so long ago. Then she had escalating abdominal distress (use your imagination on that one), which she at first attributed to the antibiotics. After a day of that, she stopped taking the antibiotics, and the stomach woes in no way subsided. So then we figured out she had the stomach flu. And then, last night, she started having pain in her teeth, much like I did when I had the infection. She’s at the doctors right now having things stuck in her nose and ears.

So, yeah… my wife is sick.

Normally I shun her like a leaper when she gets sick, because I don’t want to get sick myself. We haven’t yet had a situation where both of us were deathly ill at once; I don’t even know how we’d deal with the girls. But, there was some kissin’ recently (come’on, it was New Year’s Eve!), and I have no doubt that some of her viral commandos jumped ship and are right now bivouacked in my guts.

Any day now with the cramping and aching and shitting out my brains, I’m sure.

Actually, we have a client in the agency today and I’ll be presenting my part of the pitch in about two hours. I fully expect the symptoms to start oh, about ten minutes before I’m on.

All I have on my side is Airborne and clean livin’.

Pray for me.