Whether or not what I have could be correctly termed "Martian Death Flu" is somewhat irrelevant; anything that forces you to sleep for over eighteen hours a day - while you're on vacation, no less - counts, as far as I can tell.

For those of you who hated the sunny, cheerful phone calls I made from the beach, revenge is yours. I have spent the last 24 hours huddled up on Noah and David's couch, under blankets, alternately sneezing and snuffling, and making the blindingly-obvious statements that I always make when somewhat feverish.If ever there was a hint that perhaps it was time to go home, this is it. True, I need sleep, as I also need hydration and probably a few calories (hard to get interested in eating when all food tastes like unsalted cardboard), but what I really, really need right now is some kitty ministrations.

Day One: attempt to die of unknown stomach ailment (currently assumed to be food poisoning). Fail miserably. Day Two: Attempt recovery. Most of said 'attempt' involved the regular ingestion of aspirin to make my body believe that its true temperature was closer to 98.6°F than 101.2°F.

Dear Santa,

Since you don't seem to have a claims or complaints department, it looks like I have to address this complaint directly to you. I realize that today is the 23rd of December, and that you're plenty busy putting together packages for all the good little kids, but given that I'm about to fall asleep where I sit, I don't think this complaint can wait much longer.

It's really a pity that the entire process of feeling ill prevents you from enjoying the niceties that occasionally come from snagging the latest and nastiest bug to go around. Who in their right mind wouldn't enjoy being allowed to curl up on one's spouse and having one's hair lazily played with while watching Buffy reruns?

It appears that, once again, the world's ended and everyone forgot to let me know ahead of time.

I knew something had to be up this morning when I woke up and Jeff informed me that 1) he wasn't feeling well and 2) that he was taking a sick day. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the McSpouse that is only slightly more likely than me to continue soldiering on through dismemberment and slight cases of death, actually took a sick day.

I brought him the sandwich he wanted from Publix (foot-long, on white, no mayo, and all kinds of stuff that would keep me from snitching bites like banana peppers / onions / pickles), the particular species of chips that appealed to him, and the makings for more Kool-Aid.

Just when I thought I was done—just got an email from my mother. My dad's got to go in for some more tests on his eye. Apparently he's been having problems with blurred vision, and the doctor can't tell if it's an infection affecting his optic nerve or if he's had a minor stroke that is impairing his vision.