Our apartment has become an unofficial Hot Zone. No, I don't mean we're baking because of the spike in temperature (yay for sprummer! or springer? or maybe springummer? sprimmer?) I'm talking about a virus shedding, wheezing, squeaking hot bed of sickness. Poor Charrow has been coughing and miserable for 5 days straight. She sounds like a combination of a plastic t-bone with an overextended squeaker and a Disney cartoon truck sputtering its last gasp of exhaust before collapsing in a heap. It's not pretty. Although it is comical when she manages to eek out a mangled version of her voice that sounds more like Sloth than Charrow. I mock her because I have yet to come down with the whatever variety of flu she's hosting. Let's hope it's not as swinelike in nature as some of her vein popping coughs.
Now would be a good time to own an ice cream machine.