The Sunday before Christmas we had a gingerbread house decorating party. Five of the Boy Wonder's friends came over and festooned little pre-made (by me) graham cracker and royal icing houses with all manner of sugary goodness. As we said our good-byes to the hyped-up cohort, for just as much sugar went into the boys as one the houses, I noticed a little tickle in my throat. That tickle grew up to become the cold that knocked me sideways for a full six weeks. That's 42 days, more or less, of congestion, coughing unrestrained by any currently available medication and the intensity of which causes a nearly constant headache, sneezing, aches, the works. All this on a new Nyquil formulation that does not contain the ingedient that actually relieves these symptoms - you know, the one you can distill into a meth ingredient if you have, say, and oil truck's worth and a lab in the back yard. Which I do not. Dammit, I want my pseudoephedrine.
And now I am bitter because I've had, what?, three weeks cold-free. Monday as I tucked Entropy Girl in for her nap I felt another little tickle. This is apparently the evil twin of December's because just 48 hours later I already feel wretched and want to crawl into the nearest bed to be plied with tea and biscuits. None of that will happen, of course, and I can't even rely on Nyquil anymore without that one key ingredient (and forget the formulations with alcohol - what's the point? ETA: I meant formulations without alcohol - that's the medical travesty) and now feel doomed to another several weeks of tubercular-style coughing and the ever so attractive spitting gobs of golden goop into tissues.
Dammit. I want my pseudoephedrine.
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