Over the weekend my darling husband finally caught all of the germs his precious children and I have been passing around for the better part of three weeks. Why is it that when the man of the house falls ill time must stop? He’s pitiful. It’s tragic. And because I am a total bitch, I am evilly enjoying every minute of it.

For three weeks he has complained about how little I’ve done in the house while I’ve had rivulets of slime cascading from my nostrils, a voice to rival Barry White, and enough snot stuffed between my ears that Christine was able to scream without me hearing her (this last bit is a bit of an exaggeration—I think if she were on another continent I’d be able to hear her. Hell, you probably already hear her at your house and just think it’s a bird or something. It’s not. It’s her.)

For three weeks I have tried to explain how I am not only PREGNANT YOU EVIL BASTARD, but I am also very sick and feel very much like a turd, a fat snotty turd. Leave me alone and let me die.”

Now I am feeling a bit better. I can breathe. I don’t cough until I pass out. I can hear something other than the flow of snot like lava through the cavities in my face. I’m not 100% cured, but I am human again and feel, if not quite good, than at least not too bad.

This weekend I tried, and mostly succeeded, to hide some of the crap we have lying around so our living room looks like something other than a dumping ground. I put the tree up and decorated it (with help, of course, from Matthieu, who swears he did it all himself), I did laundry and dishes, hell I even vacuumed. The Christmas presents are all wrapped and hidden away. I even made it to the post office yesterday—so yes Vrandy, luv, your pants are in the mail—so my sisters and their families should get their gifts before the new year.

And my darling husband, who is all snotty and cough-y and miserable? What does he think of this? “I’m dying and you want to work…ugh!”

Bwahahahahaha. I am an evil bitch!

And if you don’t believe me, just go ask Antipo. I imagine I’ll have a bunch of pygmy Kiwis come slay me in the night for ruining her Christmas. Ohhhh! Maybe they'll mistake me for the snoring, grumpy, lump of snot I live with.

And looky! What an odd combination. Two old favorites singing one of my favorite Christmas songs.