Bra-a-a-a-ains

I think there's a rule or a law or something that says Zombies have to say that.

I have the deep chesty cold voice that makes it sound really funny when I say it: "Bra-a-a-a-ains!" And for some reason, it's been A Cold With An Attitude.

I called the company that made our microwave, trying to get an owner's manual so I would know what the touch pad did, and got a hilarious service tech. He apologized for their computer system, and I apologized for my wonky, high and low squeaky adolescent voice and the sound of the kid alternately coughing and shooting aliens in the background.

Then he tried to find our very old microwave's manual in their system. He was funny. I enjoyed talking to him, and I hope some supervisor didn't listen in and bring out the rack or the comfy chair after he hung up. He told me what the power levels were on the microwave, anyway, and we exchanged amusing ways to pre-slice hotdogs before nuking to make them into amusing shapes so sick kids who aren't hungry would eat.

I've been trying to read blogs and catch up while feeling too stupified to comment.

I've discovered that it's really hard to be in a cold-fog and try to get a kid who is in his own cold-fog to do his schoolwork so he can keep up. We were really healthy all winter and had hardly any colds among us. So now it's spring and this one is wiping the floor with us.

I'm alive, reading Jared Diamond's Collapse, and intermittently collapsing myself into naps.

Back later. Soon. I hope.