I just flu in from Osaka, and boy are my adenoids tired

I was really looking forward to last night, I really was. Near the end of a long day, my mind was occupied with thoughts of Cloud Atlas (thanks for the rec, denz; fantastic novel), followed by an episode or two of The Twilight Zone, some cold beers, and the meatball sub I had in the fridge. Then the wife rang me shortly after dinner to tell me that the 18th Letter was sick, that she had a fever of 40 Celcius (236 Fahrenheit, if my conversion is accurate), and I knew it wasn't going to be a fun or restful evening.

The little girl was asleep when I arrived home. I showered, changed clothes and picked up the novel, but who was I kidding? Not a minute later she began coughing and crying, and, like that, my evening was done. No harm, I figured: Friday's a pretty breezy day for me, so staying up later than usual and taking care of the sicky (Mommy's schedule the next day wasn't nearly as fortuitous) wasn't a huge bother. Just don't infect me, kiddo I prayed.

We ended up staying awake until 3:30, watching Dora The Explorer. It was the little girl, sharp as she is, who pointed out that, at that late an hour, Dora really should have been in bed. Where's her Mommy, she asked me? Beats me, I told her. Then we had a quite lengthy discussion about why no one in the Doraverse ever administered swift justice to Swiper and beat him senseless for stealing their shit. You'd think that, with all their skills of deduction and orienteering, Dora and her gang of thugs would have clued in a while ago that Swiper is a no-good shit.

But I digress.

This morning the angel's fever had not abated, and she was forced, against her powerful will, to miss nursery school. She definitely doesn't follow after the old man. If I remember correctly, my school attendence record for missed classes per year was close to Kobe Bryant's current points per game average.

It was my immense pleasure to take care of the poor, sick Golden Child. Here's what transpired:

9:10 -- Mr. Mom again. Last night's dinner is the new breakfast.

9:15 -- Where was my head? I forgot to turn on The Wiggles: like kimchi and cold rice, a breakfast time staple at Chez Sparkles. God bless The Wiggles.

9:25 -- I'm pretty hungry myself. I wonder when I'll be able to eat that cup of instant curry noodles I have stashed in the cupboard? To stave my appetite, I drink some Del Monte tomato juice. The little girl passes when I offer her some. More for me, skipper. A lot of foreigners frown on Asian-style tomato juice, and a lot of it is shite, but Del Monte has their shit mastered. By the way, if anyone tells you that Mott's or V8 (which I actually prefer) is closer to the taste of real tomatoes than the Korean stuff, tell them they haven't got a clue. Tell them that Mott's and V8 is closer to tomato paste. Then kick them in the spine and steal their bus pass.

9:50 -- I've given up on breakfast. I have to set a good example, and curry noodles, M&Ms, and a large bag of sour cream and onion potato chips just isn't in the cards. Woe is me.

10:00 -- They're showing the replay of the Henin-Hardenne (to spell) vs. Sharapova Australian Open match on TV. We are both enthralled for several minutes, hopefully for totally different reasons.

10:10 -- Our first sign of trouble. The little girl has this life-like doll (I'm Talking Tina, and I want to...), and she wants to make it cry. The sadist. I tell her that it's not a very motherly thing to want to hurt a child, but she persists. I weigh the consequences of having to listen to the cries of a real kid, and those of a fake one. Obviously I opt for the latter. I wait until the thing's asleep, then toss it at the wall.

Waaaaaah!, followed by high fives.

10:30 -- After reading the girl Where The Wild Things Are (fear-mongering at its finest), she begs me to put on the Best of Elmo DVD. At this point I'm putty in her hands and she knows it. I probably should mention that I did have work to do today; it's no mean feat juggling a sick and cranky daughter and keeping an Internet poker hot streak going, you know. It's about this time that I broke out the "you're not really sick, are you?" routine. I would have pressed her harder, but I realized that she was so hot she probably could have kicked Johnny Storm's ass, so I left matters alone.

10:55 -- Sound asleep. It seems Elmo no longer gets her so excited that she starts biting the furniture and tries to create firearms out of Duplo. The end of an era.

11:10 -- Meatball sub. Finally. I turn on the TV (first by teasing the standby button with my tongue, then stroking its contours, telling it what great reception it receives, how smart and together it is). Nothing's on, so I settle on Oprah, which would normally be akin to pulling every one of my ball hairs out with tweezers, but today Ope has on James Frey, the guy whose book she endorsed for her bullshit Book Club (slight digression: one of my favorite books is East of Eden, and I need a new copy, but have put off purchasing one because every good copy I come across has her goddamn Book Club logo on it; I'm a man of principles), but who turned out to be a stinking, motherfucking liar of the highest order. Oprah is roasting the fucker and his publisher. THIS is riveting television. I'm expecting Oprah to leap on the guy and bite his shoulder like one of the zombies in Dawn of the Dead. For Frey, an ex junkie (he's says so, but that's probably bullshit too), I bet this upbraiding is a gazillion times worse than any intervention he has experienced or made up. Seriously, I won't say a negative thing about Oprah for a week. That was possibly the best thing I've seen on television, ever.

12:05 -- the little one wakes up. I give her a cookie (technically a biscuit, but I'm all Newspeak when it comes to shit my wife buys at Paris Baguette) and a glass of water.

12:10 -- The wife arrives home. She has that "thank god she's still alive" look she always wears whenever she returns from leaving me at home with the girl. It wasn't a completely smooth getaway, however. She wanted to know what the deceased Jehova's Witness lady was doing on our veranda, stuffed awkwardly behind the washing machine.

What Jehova's Witness lady? I feigned surprise.

10:49pm -- I have nothing to fear. My alibi is tight.