And we aren’t even Catholic, although I have always been fascinated with the whole idea of confessionals, but I digress.

Linda Blair appeared in our home on Christmas Eve, and boy is that one mean woman.  When I say “Linda Blair” I really mean ebola/flu/virus/bubonic plague.  Could I be exaggerating?  Well, if you think an ER visit, frothing at the mouth, vomit and other bodily fluids running rampant (hah, that’s a pun in and of itself, get it?), ruined bedding, and massive amounts of what God sent from HEAVEN AKA Phenegran sounds like I am stretching the truth, well, then buddy, you better stay far away from here.

Isn’t the whole idea of a 24 hour virus 24 HOURS?  Maybe I was caught in some Vulcan timewarp, but those 24 hours multiplied into 120 hours that can only be described as HELL ON EARTH.  With gatorade.  And saltines, but not the low fat kind, I mean who eats that?  Linda hopped from family member to family member, first attacking gigantic hubby and leaving him as a mound of flesh awaiting for death.  Then Casper and I enjoyed her company simultaneously, which if you have no children then you won’t understand, but if you do…well…thanks for the empathy.  And just when Linda possibly vanished from our lives, Drama Diva wretched something so awfully putrid that no special effects guru in Hollywood could come close to replicating it for another Predator v. Alien movie.

After Linda left, we were all a bit more grateful for the simpler things:  water, bread, toilet use less than 20 times an hour, upright posture, and fresh breath.

So, how did the rest of you fare?  Hope you didn’t give shelter to Ms. Blair.  Damn her.