And lazy.

Some have suggested that I am growing my beard to make up for my receding hairline. I've heard it all.

"Once upon a time, your hair was on your head. Now, your head is on your hair."

"Your hair must have slipped off your head, and now it's hanging on for dear life."

"That solar panel you had installed up there is really fueling a growth below."

"The 'Hanging Gardens of Babble-on'"

Ha, ha, very funny.

I think my curiosity is settled. I am still lazy, but I am ready to shave off my beard. Unfortunately, my wife's grandmother has not yet seen it, so I am keeping it on by special request until she can see it. Due to a heavy schedule, that visit might be a while.

Oops. Silly me. My wife proofreader has saved me from inaccuracy once more. I am told that it is due to being too lazy to shave my beard, that visit might be a while.

But sooner or later, beard will have to go. I don't want to be mistaken for Charles Manson. Nor Fidel Castro. Nor Josephia Quade, whomever she is.

And summer is not best season for growing a beard. It would make more sense in winter, when I need protection against bitter arctic winds. In summer, it will only make my face sweat.

But what will finally end my curiosity – and my laziness! – is food. When something gets stuck in beard that I cannot identify, that will probably scare me into shaving it off.

Besides, all this beard-growing is probably of little comfort to those people wanting most to rearrange my face because of my vocal opinions. A beard won't solve their problem.

A stapler might.

"That wasn't water in kettle."

"What was it?" her eyes were wide in alarm.

"CLR."

"Phfrttpfrt!!!!" she blurted out. Suddenly I felt like a soggy version of our sneeze-adorned walls. I love being part of a new fashion trend.

When both your wife and daughter are sick, housework suffers. Not only are there fewer hands to clean things up, but those hands are more needy than usual. So it was with particular pride that I had managed on day 4 of their cold to actually catch up on washing dishes.

OK, so I didn't quite catch up, but I was at point where stove and table were clear of dishes. This was partly due to my uncanny talent for balancing dirty dishes several layers high on counter, but it was also partly due to an hour-and-a-half of washing. All I could think was, "Nobody had better use any of these dishes after I spent so much time washing them."

SNEEZE!!! Oh no...more flamboyance. I put down dish cloth and headed to living room to survey damage.

As I entered living room...SNEEZE!!! I was becoming a professional sponge. All I needed was a certificate of authenticity to prove my credentials.

Before I could decide what to do next, I heard distinct sound of juice being mixed in very juice pitcher I had just finished washing.

I darted for kitchen. "Noooo. I just washed that pitcher. Don't dirty it already." I lunged at my startled wife, and it took only a second to realize how useful I would have been to Dallas Cowboys. And how useless I was in our kitchen.

It's no joy to be sick. It's even less joy when your child is sick. The most unjoy is when you AND your child are sick together. But if you want to be 100% free from all trace of joy, get sick while your child is sick and ask your sneeze-adorned husband to tackle you in kitchen while you are trying to mix juice to wash taste of CLR from your mouth.