Who knew? Who knew that my wonderful experience with NyQuil would turn me into a track-scratching junky? That it was just a gateway drug? That before I knew it, I'd be booking a one-way ticket to the Betty Ford Clinic?
In other words, I went out today and bought a bottle of DayQuil.
But it wasn't for me. Really. It was for my arsenal. The prevent-the-husband-from-whining arsenal, so when he complains, justifiably, that I have sullied our home with a foul, nameless malady, I can say, "Hey, quit whining. I bought DayQuil, didn't I?"
I also brought his clothes to the dry cleaner, brought his Netflix movies to the post office, and baked cookies. So he'd better not come whining to me about the revolting pestilence I've foisted upon our household, that's all.
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