I’ve been rather under the weather here lately, and while I don’t know if it comes across in my writing or not, I seem to have lost my voice, in every sense of the phrase possible. Supposedly during pregnancy women are blessed with a type of super immunity, protecting us, and consequently the rug rats we are carrying, from the ills of the outside world. Well, this is pure and total horse shit. In fact, all those pregnancy bibles? Toss them in the garbage because they are all full of shit.

The munchkins got sick a few days before we went to see the ASIL last week. By the time we’d made it to Strasbourg they were both feeling rather cruddy and slept the entire afternoon in their respective strollers. This is not normal behavior and makes me want to keep a couple of petri dishes of bacteria in our fridge for days when I need a break from the constant battle of the monkeys. Here, wanna fight? Go fight some germs.

The best part about having young sick monkeys is that they haven’t quite mastered the ‘put your hand in front of your mouth when you cough’ thing. As their doting, loving mother (still half a word, folks) I have had my face sprayed more times than I care to think of with the byproducts of their congestion. Whenever this has happened I have stuck out my not-very-or-at-least-not-yet pregnant gut and counted on that bullshit about pregnancy and immunity.

In other words, I got sick, too. Like sicker than I remember being since I’ve been in this god-forsaken country of social-medicine-so-kwitcherbellyachin’-and-go-to-the-doctor-already. But with two and a half munchkins and an over-worked ever-absent husband, who has time to go see the great dispenser of cures? Not I. At least that’s my claim.

So I have suffered for a little more than a week. My nose hath runneth over, into my throat, my ears, even my eyes. I’ve sneezed, coughed, and wheezed until I can no longer do any of those things without hurting some muscle or other. I’ve been miserable.

By Friday I’d started feeling like things were getting better. This was fortunate as the mad chick from South Africa was coming for the weekend, and as she’d been kind enough to stay away whilst dealing with the chicken pox at her house, I figured I should at least try to be healthy, too. I’m all about fairness.

Friday we had a smashing evening, eating like pigs (at least she did), drinking like fish (again, her, not me) and making total asses of ourselves (no, not me either) during a concert for the benefit of Jerry’s Kids in France or whatever group it is that the Telethon supports over here where we were almost kicked out of the church for being ever-so-slightly amused by the Veely Franch accent of my husband’s choir. Imagine, two anglophones laughing at French people singing Gospel music in a 500 year old church. Of course, the fact that my husband is in the group, and the serious lack of spectators (we were two of ten), saved us from being tossed out on our keisters by Dave, of the Is He Or Ain’t He club, who did, never the less, embarrass us both by telling all of Joinville (or rather the other 8 spectators) just how international their audience was.

We went out for drinks after that where I was kindly hung out to dry by our sweet, apparently starved house guest, when I had to explain to these genteel French folks just why we were laughing so gleefully during their concert. All I can say in retrospect is, ‘thank God they didn’t sing Rock My Soul’ because I think we would have needed oxygen. Of course I did feel vindicated as I watched her squirm away from the slimeball at the bar who tried desperately to get L’il Miss Laugh At Their Accents to go home with him. At least he tried his moves in English. (And yes, it was still pitiful.)

After all that fun and excitement and a quick almost-midnight tour of the Princely City of Joinville (including an explanation of Wash Day Stew), we all went home and ate dessert with the Director and Dave who live in the next village and who were kind enough to give Marc a ride home so he didn’t have a car seat shoved up his bum.

Saturday brought more tourist-y things, including the infamous Tour d’Arse in Chaumont which brought tears to my poor guest’s eyes such were her chuckles, the noble village of Vignory, and the infamous visit to LeClerc which you’ll have to read about on her blog, because I refuse to go there. We also stuffed ourselves stupid on Indian food which was such a delightful change from the creamy and buttery dishes of northern France that we’d spent the morning complaining about, that we couldn’t stop ordering and eating. (Hey Vi, the Indian place is right across from the Chinese place and the prices are reasonable—you need to come visit!!!! Drool drool.)

And as we had some space left over after lunch, I made a tartiflette for the evening meal. Someone ate half the platter on her own, in addition to an entire bottle of champagne (minus the two glasses she knocked over in a most gracious manner) and two glasses of Frangelico she had to drink. Me thinks the woman never eats at home. Damn, I know I cook fairly well, but…just DAYUM!

We had planned on watching the Beeb, but never got around to it and instead fell into a contented starch-and-cheese induced coma until Sunday morning. Vrandy, as she is called by the elder monkey who is capable of human-like speech, had her morning coffee and a couple of pancakes with maple syrup and then drove back to the sphincter of France (as opposed to the prostrate, where we live).

Since then, my cold-like-slow-creeping-death symptoms, which had given me a bit of a break even though I could no longer talk Saturday night, have jumped up on me like a rabid dog. I’ve slept almost all day, drunk hot liquids, cold liquids, eaten very little (comparatively) and used five packs of tissues and half a roll of paper towels and still my brains are leaking out. I am, in every physical way possible, miserable. My sinuses are screaming, the bits around my nose are on fire and my throat is doing something that feels like what nails on a chalkboard sound like.

But I feel better than I have in a long, long time. Thanks Psychotic South African. We must do it again sometime. And soon. (And I promise to stop humping my appliances, sexy though they are.)