the post where, if you've had even the slightest hint of a crush on me, you're now saying, 'yeah, listen, it was fun...' and then backing away slowly

See that thing over there? Can you guess what it is? Anyone? You. In the back. Is your hand raised or are you just scratching your back?

Oh, you want to try your luck at multiple choice, eh? I see how you are. OK, your choices are as follows:

1. The hyper-fertilization of the sauciest egg at the party. Ah, slow jam, baby.

2. The end result of what three hours and nearly 800 prize tickets will net two boys who worked in tandem at Chuck E. Cheese's.

3. A virulent strain of germ that is, as I write this, lodged within the deep recesses of my lungs.

If you chose Number 2 you would, by all accounts, be correct. This is (finger quotes) technically (finger quotes) a close up shot of the small (emphasis on small because why would you spend three hours and endure gastrointestinal distress at Chuck E. Cheese's for a big prize, yo!) ball the boys picked out as their joint prize. My boys are such sweethearts, choosing to pick one prize rather than four rubber earthworms, one plastic ring, and 14 Tootsie Roll Midgies apiece. I love that they work together and reduce bickering. I'm sure the pouting I did when they didn't have any Tootsie Rolls for me to steal wasn't the greatest way to demonstrate my pride, though, and for that, I'm sorry.

OK, so, this proves you're all very, very smart people. I didn't really doubt this for a minute, mind you. However, I was actually hoping you'd guess Number 3 - the virulent germ strain that will perhaps be named after me once it has successfully worked to kill me. What's that? You in the back again? Another itch? No? Oh, you want to tell me you hope I feel better soon? Aww. Thank you! Aren't you a dear!

As I typically do when I acquire a new illness, I like to place the blame for my distress at the feet of the person or persons most likely responsible, then do everything in my power to make them pay. Naturally, my first call was to Chuck E. Cheese's. I figure if I came home Monday night ripped up from the inside, it's not unlikely someone back in the kitchen hocked up a big old smorgasbord of germs on our pepperoni and sausage. However, no one else in my family is (as yet) displaying similar symptoms, so I feel compelled to cross the mouse off my list.

My second choice is the herd of preschoolers to whom I taught Sunday school last weekend (I'll give you a minute to recover after reading that sentence...). Here's a list of reasons why I think they - either individually or as a team - are responsible. Please read them and then give me your thoughts. Let's brainstorm this, people!

• The funky smell of funk detected as I entered the room filled with 20 four and five-year-old children (granted, "funky smell of funk" doesn't necessarily equal "raging cold" but I feel it necessary to include).
• The fishing of Playdough from the mouths of approximately three of said 20 children
• God laughing uproariously at the idea of me actually teaching Sunday school to a gaggle of preschoolers, resulting in holy spittle falling from the heavens and landing upon me.
• The thick green ribbons of mucus I helped wipe from the faces of four children (including one of whom who opted to use her tongue instead because I was apparently too slow).
• The recoiling in horror I did when one tiny zombie-faced child lumbered toward me before taking a header and landing in my neck. After smearing her snotty face across my cheek.

If it helps you any, the lesson I taught was about Abraham, and we painted paper tents, then put dark blankets over a table and crawled under them so we were together in our tent while I read the story of God telling Abraham he had to move, except I didn't so much get to read the story as I broke up fights about the blanket and tried to keep some mother's little angel from kick fighting with another mother's little angel. And then I went home and wept.

Anyway...

Questions? Thoughts? Opinions?

Yeah. I'm inclined to agree. I think the Sunday school class is to blame, too. Thus, as revenge, I shall unleash a reign of terror upon their houses the likes of which they've never seen before!! That should be really awesome considering that at this moment, I sound exactly like Regan in The Exorcist (p.s. I'm home alone tonight and looking through a bunch of video clips for that one creeped me the hell out)(well, I mean, the kids are here, but of what good are they to me in situations like demon possession?!). Anyway, I'm all rattly in the lungs and when I cough, it sounds like death spewing forth from my bowels, so when I say I can unleash a reign of terror, I'm not jacking around here.

I also don't exactly mean my bowels either, just FYI. That would be hella gross. What I actually mean is...sigh... OK, when I cough...ladies...help me out here...when I cough I think I'm close to dying, so naturally, as one of the last things I think I'll do, I thank my laughing God for my children....and then I curse them a little bit because getting them to the outside meant they've wreaked havoc upon my pelvic floor. I'm not admitting anything for sure here, but there's a chance I'm writing this post while perched atop two very thick beach towels folded under me and placed delicately upon my couch. Oh, I am a pretty, pretty princess.

Hello, Kegel exercises, you saucy wenches. I see we (need to) meet again...

Oh, and I see we meet again, too, chicken salad sandwich on honey wheat nut bread I ate around 2 p.m., today. Yeah. The coughing is so powerful that it does have a tendency to work from both ends sometimes. Ladies, here's a tip. If you have long hair like I do, never be without a hair scrunchie in your pocket. You'll thank me later.

I'm so hopped up on cough syrup with codeine (my faithful lover) that if Tool Man was here, he could SO get it on with me right now (see photo above). Because nothing says "I desire to throw you down and make mad, hot love to you!" like a little incontinence. Oh, like YOU'RE judging ME!

You in the back again. You have something more to say? What? I am a sexy, sexy beast? Oh, stop! You're making me blush!

Or maybe I just have a fever now! Crap!

Damn those Sunday school kids! Damn them, damn them, damn them!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I (may) have to go change now.

P.S. Hey! As my dying wish (what? it feels like I am dying, you know!), won't you go over to Blogtations and vote for me and my fun and fancy quote from last fall to be the best Blogtation of the Year? Just read through the other (more hilarious) quotes, then do me a solid, follow the email link right there on the page, and vote for plain old mine, OK? I'd do it for you. If I wasn't dead, I mean. Voting ends February 13th, and if you do, I'd kiss you. Except you don't want my germs. Right. OK, I'll curtsy in your general direction.