It’s like Where’s Waldo, only instead of Waldo, you are trying to find the point.

Fiona is sick, I have PMS, and I’m out of Prozac. That is my way of telling you that I don’t mind if you skip this post.

Motherfucker.

Fin.

Just kidding.

So, Fiona has her first cold, and you people never told me how horrifying an infant with a chest cold is! She has raspy breathing, and green snot, and she looks at me with sad eyes. It’s pretty much horrible, and also: exhausting. I am not quite in the swing of the whole staying at home thing. The thing about staying at home is all the staying at home, you know? I took her on a walk today (should you take a sick baby on a walk? I don’t know!) just because it seemed like we hadn’t been out in days. When we were walking I was like, when did we last go out? Oh right, Winco. Probably where she got sick in the first place, from all the robust zombies.

B has been working long hours, which is great for the new found “Budget of Doom” but sucks when you have a sick baby and just want a person, a real live fucking human being, to hand the baby to so that you can do something like brush your teeth or just rock back and forth in the corner.

Sidebar: I salute single moms. I know that everyone adapts to the situation at hand, but the truth is, single parents work twice as hard at hard work.

When I called the doctor I got the “tell it how it is nurse” and she was like, “If you hear the baby panting, the baby is in trouble. If you hear the baby gasping, the baby is in trouble. If the baby can’t eat, the baby is in trouble . . . ” on and on until I was in full stage-five-def-con-orange-raised alert. How about just doing me a solid and telling me if I should make an appointment or not? A list of things that I should go to the ER for will do one thing: guarantee I end up in the ER.

Then I broke the washing machine washing a feather pillow, which one would think wasn’t something you could not wash, but the tag said it could be so I did, and well, just because a tag says it is FEDERAL LAW to remove it doesn’t mean it knows shit about my machine. It tore the pillow open, water poured out of every part of the washer, and wet fucking duck feathers were (are) everywhere.

Then I called Comcast and I was so tired that when the lady asked if I wanted to return the silver receiver I said, “The upstairs one?” and she said, “Well, I don’t know where you keep it . . .” and I DIED laughing. I think she thought I was insane. The upstairs one? Oh, self, you so funny.

Then I went to get the mail (my outside trip for the day!) and the dogs ran outside like we were filming the god-dammed end sequence of the Shawshank Redemption, and I was rendered stupid for a minute trying to decide whether to chase the dogs and leave the baby or get the baby and then chase the dogs.

I’m going to stop now, even though there was more to this glorious day. I think I have made my point: NEVER RUN OUT OF PROZAC.