So we are on Day 47 of Elvis screeching at the top of his lungs every few seconds, at little to no provocation, just because he enjoys screeching, and I have been through the stages of grief–Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance–and now I am starting to work through them all over again because actually, I cannot handle this many days in a row of constant screeching.  It wears on a person.  You think you’ve gotten used to it and it’s just become part of the aural landscape, and then all of a sudden
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!  SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!  SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!
and bammo! out of nowhere the homicidal urge unleashes itself with renewed fury.  I make little jokes now and again about the Pediatric Valium®, but we’re way beyond that, brothers and sisters.  I’m having some extremely vivid daydreams in which duct tape figures prominently.  If you don’t hear from me for a while, it may be because I’m too lazy to blog, but there’s also the possibility that I’m in prison.  I’m just letting you know that in advance.

Here’s something that doesn’t help:  I’d been coming down with this little cough/cold thing for about a week, and then on Sunday morning I woke up and it was a big cough/cold thing.  I’m not talking not-so-wee, I mean frickin’ huge.  I spent nearly all of Sunday in bed–BEST FATHER’S DAY EVER, MERRY CHRISTMAS, HONEY!–but then early Monday morning my husband had to leave for Girls’ Camp.  Ha ha, that sounds sinister.  Well, it is, actually.  This week is our church’s Girls’ Camp, and because my daughter has documented “special needs,” one of us has to be at camp with her while she’s there.  It is a long and troubled saga, this Girls’ Camp thing.  It’s mostly a blur now, but as I recall, Princess Zurg was initially less than enthusiastic about Girls’ Camp–okay, I’m getting deja vu, have I already written about this before?  I’m too lazy to write about it now, but I am even more too lazy to look up whether or not I’ve already explained this or merely considered explaining it, but suffice it to say that Girls’ Camp is this week and PZ is at Girls’ Camp because that’s what Mormon girls do unless they want to go to hell and/or miss out on all the fun, and because PZ is there, Sugar Daddy is also there and they both left early yesterday morning.  Well, to be more specific, SD left at 6 a.m. to drive down to the camp, and at 6:45 a.m. I drove PZ down to the church to get on a bus to go to the camp.  Does this seem less than efficient somehow?  I’m sure it’s just your imagination.  Suffice it to say, On what day of the year does Elvis sleep in past 6 a.m.?  Why, it’s that one day of the year that I need to wake up at 6 a.m. to drive PZ down to the church.  I bet you got that question right and didn’t even have to study for it.

So I woke up the sleeping Elvis and the sleeping Girlfriend to drive PZ down to the church for camp.  SD will be there until late this evening, when he come home.  I am supposed to go up early tomorrow morning and bring PZ home late tomorrow night.  The camp is really five days long, but she is only staying three days because we had to make a decision about how long she would be staying in advance, and it was some time ago, at which time she didn’t really want to go at all, and as I’m trying to reconstruct this decision in my head, I’m thinking that the reason I committed to three days as opposed to five or zero was that I thought it was possible that PZ might enjoy herself, but she also might not, and if I committed to five days, I would also be committing myself or SD (but mostly myself, as SD could only take two days off work in any event) to five days, and I really didn’t relish spending that much time at a camp that my own daughter, the only reason I’d be there in the first place, wasn’t loving the mother-loving hell out of–so yeah, three days seemed like a reasonable compromise to me at the time.  Some time after that very decisive (on my part) decision-making, SD started to worry that PZ might be having a lot of fun and then have to go home and wouldn’t that be sad.  He likes to do that because he resents my decision-making skills and how I’m always showing him up with how decisive I can be, so he has no choice but to unleash the guilt trip.  I have decision-making skillz, he has guilt-trippin’ skillz; that’s why we work so well together.  That’s the dysfunctionality that keeps our marriage strong–13 YEARS, SUCKAHS!  BOOYAH!

Where was I?  Oh, yeah, the Girls’ Camp.  So PZ and SD are off at Girls’ Camp, probably having loads of fun–well, PZ is having loads of fun THAT MUST BE CUT SHORT DUE TO HER MOTHER’S EFFICIENCY IN DECISION-MAKING, and SD is earning Martyr Points for enduring more than twice as much Girls’ Camp as I’ll have to (this year).  Technically, I guess, he is there in case PZ has “issues” that can’t be resolved by ordinary mortals who have enough crap to deal with, what with 100 girls aged 12-18 running around like ninnies in the great outdoors, but so long as she does not have issues, he is stuck in the kitchen cooking food for these teenage ninnies, which he thinks is whack because, apparently, at Boy Scout camp, they pay a kitchen staff to cook for you, and when he went to Boy Scout camp as an adult volunteer, he got to spend most of his time reading books and shooting guns.  So he did not expect he’d have to do this kind of chump job at Girls’ Camp.  I speculated that perhaps Boy Scouts have more money to throw around at their camps than our Girls’ Camps do, but SD says that’s just not true, so then I speculated that maybe the Girls’ Camp is wasting money on frou frou girly stuff.  So SD is stuck in the kitchen so our camp can have tampons.  I dunno.  Whatever.  I personally would rather be stuck in a kitchen than hanging out with the screaming ninnies (and they are screamers; I know, I went for one day last year–I know I must have blogged about that), but I doubt that they are going to let me near a food-preparation area with me coughing my lungs out every few minutes.  Or maybe they will.  Maybe that’s another cost-cutting measure so the ladies can have doilies in their latrines.  I’ll get to the bottom of that mystery, gentle readers.  Count on it.

Or maybe you shouldn’t, because I’m really not feeling well, and it’s possible I’ll spend most of Wednesday passed out (if I’m lucky) on a random log and won’t have time to interrogate anyone in the enhanced manner I would like to employ.  I was about to say that the Obama administration doesn’t exist at Girls’ Camp–get it, because that’s how I’d get away with the enhanced interrogation?–but that’s not actually true.  Last year they had a cardboard cutout of President Obama that followed the camp presidency wherever they went.  (The camp presidency was dressed up as Secret Service agents, it was cute.  And because I am so illness-addled, I almost called them Social Security agents, which didn’t make any sense.  It took me several seconds to come up with the right SS.  And yes, the camp presidency is a bunch of teenage girls, so while this Secret Service cuteness was silly, it was somewhat excusable.)  Of course there will be a different camp presidency this year, so I don’t know if Cardboard Obama will be there or not, but maybe I shouldn’t risk it.

Speaking of the president (the U.S. president), I’ve been trying to come up with a blog post where I could claim to be the new Ass-Kicking Czar for the Obama administration, but nothing’s coming to me.  I blame my illness, and also a lack of imagination.  In lieu of such cleverness, I will post this video, which is only marginally clever, and yet very catchy.

Matt Lauer was good in that, I thought.

Where was I?  Oh, that’s right, my mind was wandering.  It was wandering, and I was almost done anyway.  All I had left to say was that I was up all night coughing, despite the fact that I took Nyquil.  Nyquil is no longer synonymous with happy fun times anymore, I guess.  At least not happy sleepy times.  It’s only 9 a.m., and everyone’s been awake for hours (because I didn’t have anywhere to go this morning).  I’m having a hard time being my usual cranky-mother self because I’ve lost my voice and can’t yell at anyone.  It really takes the wind out of my sails, so to speak.  Or the Sudafed out of my Nyquil.  That’s my new catch phrase, ladies and gentlemen–“You took the Sudafed out of my Nyquil!”  You read it here first.

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