wheezehackwheeze...Hang On a Sec...coughcoughcough...Okay, then.

Well, I hope you all had a great weekend! Mine went well, I think. Saw my wickedly funny and adorable second-youngest brother for the first time in almost five years, the stuffed shells were, of course, superb, my kids were happy, and I managed not to keel over into the cannolis, which, considering I woke up with the flu on Christmas Eve morning, is a huge accomplishment. I'm guessing that my little rendezvous with the porcelain yawp god the other night wasn't due to an overdose of cosmopolitans...Unless, that is, cosmopolitans induce high fevers, muscle aches, excruciating pain in the chest, severe cough and boogery head. Possible, I suppose, but highly doubtful.

I spent all Christmas day in bed, with the exception of opening presents at five a.m. (I'll bet you know that wasn't my idea), and making a huge turkey dinner. Watched a Woody Allen-a-thon on cable, ate Russell Stover chocolates (thanks, Ms. Olivia!), and generally just behaved like a giant sloth. I don't want to be sick for New Year’s Eve, people. I must not, can not be sick. There are many mad cow sticks to be consumed, bottles of champagne to chug, and I desperately need to get freaky with Lar. Which brings me to my short list of realizations:

Five Things I Realized While Lying Flat On My Back On Christmas Day

1) My stomach looks like a super model's when I'm lying flat on my back. I should go around life on a gurney, attend parties, the beach. I would wear the tiniest thong bikinis and low-rider jeans with pride.

2) I like Woody Allen movies. A lot. But I still think he's a gross little troll.

3) Russell Stover chocolates start to taste the same after the fifteenth, sixteenth piece. When I think I'm eating a coconut one and it's actually strawberry cream, I know I've had enough.

4) My kids don't care if I'm on my death bed. I imagine that when I'm lying in my coffin, finally at peace, at least one of my kids will nag me to resurrection.

5) My husband's body looks damn fine. Like, underwear model fine. Like, ohmygod-he- looks-better-than-I-do-and-I'd-better-start-working-out-more fine. I realized this while watching him change into workout clothes yesterday. He's only been training at the gym for two months, and already he looks like a slightly more mature Marky Mark.


Bastard.






Hope to be posting again soon, but if you don’t hear from me for a few days, it’s because I passed on. But don’t worry -- be assured that my kids will see to it that I don’t lie in state for very long.

ADDENDUM: Speaking of Ms. Olivia, she’s co-editor of a couple for-charity anthologies, Animal Magnetism,and Southern Comfort.

All proceeds go to Noah's Ark and American Red Cross.

Check those out, folks, and help in the continuing Katrina relief efforts while at the same time enjoying some excellent SF, horror and fantasy fiction and poetry.