Silly me, I thought we would never get around to taking a group photo this year, but there we all are! I guess this is God’s way of telling us to slow down and have ourselves a streppy little New Year. Also, He hates us.
Meh, it could be worse. My husband isn’t working this weekend, so we can all have one last chance to enjoy a good old-fashioned family vacation together, sitting around the fire and sipping our disgusting pink medicine, trading good old stories about what we imagined we saw on the ceiling when the fever was at its peak, and tapping out the rhythm of our favorite old songs. Can’t sing. Throat hurts.
Really, really, it’s not that bad! The worst part is the crushing guilt I feel when I think about all those friends and family eating all that fudge and peanut brittle and buckeyes I made with my own, two, plague-ridden hands. . .