Well, Santa Pub Crawl 2005 was a resounding success.  Such a success, in fact, that it made me sick.  Yes, I am so lame that I can't handle one late night of frivolity without getting a sore throat and nasty cold.  Wah.  Whoa is me.

We rolled in after closing down (well, we made it to last call, anyway) Bobby Baker's bar.  It was about two by the time we went to sleep.  At 4:30, the little angel started crying. She cried for about twenty minutes before I threw Ferber to the wind and begged my visiting mother to take her downstairs and MAKE THE NOISES STOP.  I drug myself from my Bed of Despair around 8:30 in the morning, head throbbing, voice scratchy, throat hurting, slightly nauseated.  I guess that is what three glass of wine, one shot and a Smirnoff Ice will do to you when you are not used to staying up past 10 p.m.

I was dragging hard all day Saturday and even had to duck out of a holiday party we'd been planning to go to for weeks.  I fell asleep on the couch watching a show about construction with my dad and beloved.  My beloved finally woke me up at 10:30 (I'd been sleeping for at least an hour) and made me go to bed.  Sunday the sore throat was worse and today I am officially going to whine to the Internet and anyone who will listen to me about it.

The little angel is also sick.  She is cough, cough, coughing.  She actually coughed until she spit up on me this morning as we were lying on the couch. I didn't notice (it wasn't very much) until the tangy scent of milk vomit tickled my nostrils.  Ew.  But I was too tired and body-aching sore to get up and do anything about it, so we lay there for a while in our own gore watching Little Einsteins.  Then the little angel saw the cat and started shouting "Sybie! Sybie!" so we had to get up and love on Sybil on the way upstairs to get dressed.  She is able to be cheerful amid her illnesses, while her mother is much more dramatic.  Thank goodness she did not inherit this part of my personality.

Wah, sniff.