I really really really really really really really really really really really hate having a cold.
Seriously. The skin at the entrance to my nostrils has threatened to pack up and head south for the winter if I come at it with one more Kleenex, but the other alternative is to look like I'm four years old, with gigantic candlesticks hanging from both sides of my nose. And yes, I know that's what four looks like because Will runs from me every time I pull out a tissue like I've got battery acid in my hands with which I plan to wipe his face.
I'd hear him yelling at me to back away with the tissues, but my ears are so incredibly blocked up that the only sound I hear clearly is that of my own labored breath coming in and out of my mouth.
Such a glamorous life I lead.
Because it was Thursday, we had dinner guests arriving. Could the smell the pot roast and vegetables that had been simmering in the kitchen all day? Nope. The bread that was rising golden-brown out of the bread machine? Guess again. The five dozen pizzelles or the eight dozen chocolate snaps I had baked from scratch earlier that morning? Uh uh. What could they smell, you ask? I'll give you two hints--one, it was coming from the sewer pipe, and two, it wasn't pretty.
Again, back to the glamorous life.