This cold has a demon in it.

A teasing demon.

It loves to lead you on, let you think you’ve got it licked and then *BAM* you’re flat on your back under a mountain of toilet paper (because the tissues ran out DAYS ago) coming to the awful realization that if Chewbacca and Rudloph procreated, the offspring would look exactly like you: hag-haired and raw-nosed.


My son sat across from me at lunch (for which he insisted on Top Ramen sprinkled with freeze-dried blueberries, and who am I to deny nutrition? and creativity?) and said as he pulled a long hair from his noodles, “Too much hair, Mom. You need to cut it.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I shrugged.
“Not maybe,” he replied without missing a beat.

And that comes just days after his older sister brought me a brush and said, “Here. It’s like… a tangled mess.”

Handle that business, Mom, instead of letting it handle you.

The good news is, I woke up feeling better. But I don’t trust it. I know this cold too well by now.

As I said, there’s a DEMON in it. And I’m pretty sure that demon works for Halls’ Cough Drop company. Or Star Wars. Or Santa.