Sofa Bites Man

In which your humble narrator gets a cold, fords a river of snot and is victimized by an overstuffed sofa.

Everyone has a cold. Wife brought home some hideous virus from her workplace where (she says) many people do not wash their hands after using the restroom. And this is a department in the medical school at a giant mid-western university. (I'll give you a hint: Its first initial is "U" and its last name is "of Minnesota.") Anyway, the department where Wife works is also a clinic so there are all sorts of members of "the public" who probably sneak down to Wife's office and lick her doorknob on their way to the bathroom.

Both children briefly turned their attentions from poop-making to snot making. We're talking rivers here. In case you do not have experience with small children, I will tell you something else. Small children hate having their noses wiped. Child #1 has become so good at avoiding the Kleenex that I have resorted to lying in wait behind pieces of furniture until he walks by at which point I leap out, tackle him and then wipe his nose. This is mostly so I don't have to watch him lick the snot from his upper lip, a charming little habit that makes me want to throw up. Children are revolting.

To add insult to an already crappy weekend I cut my finger on our living room sofa. What the hell? I was doing a real vacuuming job in the living room, moving furniture and the whole shebang when I noticed that the back of the leather sofa by the window was pretty filthy since our main cat and our emergency back-up cat (also known as Retardo Montalban) sleep up there and drool and shed. So I got a dust rag to wipe off the cat detritus and managed to catch the very edge of a strip of velcro that holds the cushion to the back of the sofa in between my fingertip and the nail of my right middle finger, slicing deeply under the nail. It hurts out of all proportion to the severity of the injury. Plus there's not a big scabby wound or anything to elicit the sympathy that I so richly deserve.

Bastard sofa. From now on only our least-liked, most-flatulent guests will be sitting on you, friend.