I woke up this morning to a blaring alarm beacon of annoyment and a son who was laying rather decidedly sprawled out on the living room floor. I didn't see police tape, so I figured he was there for a reason which didn't include morbidity. Just in case, however, I nudged him with my foot.

"You. There. Why are you on the floor?" I prodded.

"On... floor?" was the groggy, half-unintelligible reply from the 6 foot lumbering teenager now trying to focus on my intrusive toe. I helped him up with a clumsy tug. He responded and held his blanket to his chest; only there was no blanket. I helped him down to his room and put him to bed. As he moved his feet sluggishly along the berber, he showed me dozens mosquito bites marking him from head to foot like a connect the dot of a very large constellation. He tiredly slurred that he'd worn lotion, but the mosquitoes liked it so much, it may have well have been barbecue sauce. "West ... Nile... dying..." he sputtered.

"Well, let's go die from malaria in the bedroom. I'll call school for you." I tucked him in, gave him a kiss on the forehead, stepped on his Rubik's cube and hopped upstairs.

As I arrived up said stairs, I heard a retching sound echoing from the bathroom. My heart sank, as I readied myself for the truth: My champion projectile vomiter was in my restroom (why is it always my restroom?) throwing up whatever she'd eaten the night before. She vomited so much, at one point I was sure I saw her foot come out of her mouth. I finally had to move to another location while the stomach seizures worked their crafty magic on my porcelain.

Eventually, she dragged herself from the bathroom and muttered, "... flu... am... dying..."

I walked her crooked and stomach-hugging form carefully to the couch after saying a quick furniture protection prayer and giving her a garbage can for good measure. "...I cleaned up the mess..." she finished, pointing back to the bathroom. I shuddered, and tucked her in. Think happy thoughts. Think scrubbing bubbles thoughts.

Amid the jumbled cacophony of flailing bodies excreting liquids, I managed to get the other grade schooler out of the door for a day of learning after packing her lunch and making sure she wasn't planning a surprise sick attack on her school instructor with a uvula thrust of stomach acids. Her clothes didn't match, but she wasn't throwing up on anyone today, by gum! Quite pleased, I settled down to home school my other son, who, thankfully, also didn't appear to need to vomit on his instructor.

It wasn't much later, while discussing the Plains Indians and their matrilineal society that I heard a garbled shriek. Teen-boy-who-scream-like-woman appeared in his underwear with a crazed look in his eye. "They're going to kill me! Squirrels! The posters on my walls! They're alive! ALIVE!"

I sighed, placed my hand gently on my younger son's hand; he had armed himself with a #2 pencil against any attackers. The tip was duller than the eraser, but it was a thought, anyway. As young son stared, mouth open, I excused myself and walked the hallucinating flu-kid slowly back to bed, and gently assured him that the stuffed animals were not going to attack him. "...dying... kill me..." he pointed. I placed the stuffed penguin in the drawer.

It never fails that when I am somewhere remote and loaded down with responsibility to save the world from killer squirrels, the phone begins to ring. It was my husband calling from Dallas. He travels sometimes for work.

I always complain that he doesn't have a girlfriend and that he's always away for business; this is because it is well known that men who cheat on their spouses give fantastic guilt gifts. Here I sat, alone in a house of wretching zombies being attacked by flesh-eating-west-nile-attack posters of Mario and Luigi, and stuffed animals. All I really wanted was granite countertops.

"You won't believe the DAY I've had-"started my husband. Meetings all day long..." I looked around, as I watched daughter throw up in the garbage pail with a loud, "BWAHHH!" I sighed. He finished "... your day?"

"Oh, I said, "Oh you know-" I began.

"- Go away! Die squirrels! Go away!-"

"--BWAHHHHH!"

"You sound busy", he continued. Then, undaunted, "You know, I had to turn the rental car back in. There was no trunk! Can you believe it?!"

"- Go away bad man! You won't kill me today! Haaahahahaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!"

"BWAHHHH!" 2 points.

"You should, "I said, slightly louder over the din, "have told the man that you needed a trunk to store the bodies-"

"Bodies?! Where! No, squirrels! Baaad squirrels!"

"Is everything ok over there?" he asked. Then he added, "I did tell them that--".

"You told them what?! That you needed a trunk for the bodies?!"

"You bet! I said to the college kid, 'I need a trunk. When I don't have a trunk I have to break their legs and I'd rather have a place for the bodies."

"BWAAAHHHHH."

"You wouldn't happen to be dating anyone, would you?" I asked, hopefully, looking at the floor and seeing my daughter had missed her mark. "That is, when you're not breaking legs and storing the bodies in your rental cars?"

"Wha--? No! Wha? Why?"

"Guilt gifts," I muttered. "Though, forget the granite countertops. I'd prefer engineered wood floors." Preferably something that withstands stomach acid and bad aim.