The Impossible Dream, Take Two (or, The Plague of Biblical Proportions)

FAIL. Epic fail on all fronts. No Fancy Nancy Party, no Extreme Room Makeover.

Waverly gets Strep on Tuesday. BOO.

I get Strep on Thusday. BOO. HISS.

Bridger gets Strep on Friday. BOO. HISS. ROAR.

I put away the paint brushes. I sequester all the new bedding and decorations for said room makeover. I call the parents of all the little fancies and tell them we are postponing the party by a week, as the plague has descended upon our house.

I call the CDC. We are quarantined in our home and our house is wrapped in plastic like that scene from E.T., you know, where NASA comes in to take E.T from Elliot? Helicopters rain Lysol from on high. The National Guard surrounds our house. Neighbors are evacuated to nearby suburbs.

The HOA is informed. (Shit.)

So I'm like, "God, umm...que pasa?" (I speak Spanish whenever I'm bacterially infected.) I'm totally a sinner and all, but what did my kids do to deserve this?

My suspicions that Waverly IS the Antichrist are confirmed.

Soon their are locusts. That's right, LOCUSTS! It doesn't take long for us to go through all the canned goods in the pantry, so we eat them. The locusts. They're crunchy.

So now I'm like, "Yo, God, what the fizzle, my Gizzle?" (I'm totally street by now, as I am jacked up on Azithromycin and Motrin which I am actually MAINLINING.)

At this, The Lord releases John--ONLY JOHN!--AND HE'S JUST JOHN POWELL NOT THE BAPTIST OR ANYTHING!-- from quarantine, NASA and the National Guardsmen. John does not hesitate and promptly goes to the beach to fish in a tournament and watch a boat race. (BOO. HISS. ROAR. THE CROWD RIOTS.)

"God. Damn. It." I say.

Bad call on my part. We are overrun by frogs. The kids think that they are cute. E.T. tries to set them all free. The dogs eat well.

At this point I'm ready to sacrifice my firstborn to placate this God whom I've apparently offended deeply. But I'm really crazy about my first kid. I search for a paschal lamb, but to no avail, as they are hard to come by in Cary and currently on backorder EVERYWHERE. I offer a pot of sunflowers and a bag of Reece's Pieces instead. The flowers die and the chocolate melts on the carpet.

Now it can't get worse, right? Right? Right? WRONG! In the course of dosing my kids with Amoxicillin (which I'm ridiculously allergic to) I somehow expose myself to this vile, bubble-gum flavored poison.

BOILS. DO YOU HEAR ME? BOILS!

(Actually, hives on my eyes and throat and a nose that gushes like the Nile but it may as well be boils because I'm F-ing MISERABLE. SERIOUSLY.)

I take a Benadryl. And now I'm like "glabble abble jarg boo dammkafarratiknon rep ping harpeleglegleglegl." (I speak in tongues when I take antihistamines). I begin to suspect that Pfizer accidentally sent out a batch of Rohypnol in place of my allergy medication when I stagger to the bathroom this morning and DO NOT SEE the glass French doors (that have been there since we built our house) that separate our bedroom from said bathroom and WALK DIRECTLY INTO THEM, smashing my forehead and knocking myself to the floor. FUCK.

Now I'm phoning home with my old Speak & Spell and hoping the Mothership will return and take me back to the Home Planet. No one comes. I am dying. I doubt I can fly my bicycle to the E.R. I have to send a sign to God and He doesn't seem to listen to retro toys manufactured by Texas Instruments. I need a lamb or something to sacrifice. There is some ground beef in the fridge but it's not very gamy and I can't get enough blood out of it to make any sort of offering.
I realize I will have to turn to The Snarky Neighbors for help. (Yes, THOSE Snarky Neighbors. The ones I challenged to a cage match last week when they suggested I take parenting classes.)

Turns out NONE of them has any spare lamb's blood I can borrow. I'm hoping red paint will do but I don't have any (who decorates with red anymore? That is SO Pottery Barn 2005.) So I take out my fave nail polish, OPI Chick Flick Cherry, and paint a giant X on the doorposts in hopes that the Lord will pass over us and spare us. Let my people go, right?

I'm not Jewish, but I'm hoping this works. And, since I have another whole week to get ready for Fancy Nancy Birthday Party, The Sequel, I now have time to map Waverly's entire genome so as to pass my findings on to the (adult) party guests as a prophylactic. Because one Antichrist is enough, yo.
I'll be right...here.