This morning as I was corralling my children out the door, Daegan called to me from the kitchen. I arrived to find a large pool of regurgitated oatmeal on the floor.

"My tummy hurts," he says.

I call in to work and let my boss know that he's sick (though I think she was suspicious -- but hey, she didn't have to watch the cat slide through the oatmeal now, did she?) Then I take Steven to school and head to WalGreens, where the land of medicinal cures awaited me. I bought fever suppressor, cough suppressor, general achiness suppressor, and enough caffeine to assure my own state of euphoria.

Upon leaving the lovely WalGreens store, I saw a poster that gave me reason to pause:

"Prozac customers, you are generic!"

What?? I stopped in my tracks, thinking perhaps I should have a word with the manager, explaining how this sort of poster probably shouldn't be displayed. But a second glance proved my worries were needless:

"Prozac customers, you have a new generic!"

Ooh. I see. Of course, a new generic what, I'm not sure. Prozac customers, you have a new generic love life? Career? Who knows. But I'm going to hope they're talking about prescriptions and go my own way.

And hope I'll see no more oatmeal today.

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