My husband is away and my children are sick.

We have been here before. Exhibit A. Exhibit B. Exhibit C. Exhibit D.

I will stop exhibiting because a) I’m fairly certain you get the point and b) I am just getting more depressed with each added hyperlink.

It’s like they have this sixth sense. They don’t, unfortunately, see dead people. Because, you guys, I would much rather that my children talked to Bruce Willis’ ghost than what they do to me when their daddy goes away.

Fevers. Aches. Chills. Sweats. Phlegm-barfs. I-have-psychological-issues-when-it-comes-to-taking-medication-of-any-kind barfs. (Those might be my favorite!)

To drown my sorrows  and to drown out the whiny-kvetchies, I have enjoyed three pieces of cake, 17 chocolate rugalach, 2.5 doughnuts, 2 bowls of microwave popcorn, frozen yogurt, an entire challah, four slices of eggplant pizza, french fries (I don’t even like french fries).

Hi. I’m Ali. I like to eat my FEEEEEEELINGS!

I really, really like to eat my feelings.

But also, because I am a crazy person of late, I also like to EXERCISE my feelings.

This is really new for me, as I have never enjoyed exercising ever.

But now, as I sit here on my ass, NOT watching the US commercials while I watch the Superbowl, I cannot wait to get my body on my elliptical trainer.

(I don’t even know who I am anymore either.)

And my husband calls from his Kelowna ski trip all, “Well! At least no one has stomach-flu barfed yet!”

(He is probably getting the US commercials while he watches the Superbowl too. Without the sniffly whining kids climbing all over him sharing their germs and giving him the plague or asking him the differences between half-man/half-goats and half-man/half-horses. And without so many SMASH commercials.)

If I could have hunted him down through the phone right there and then, I would have.

He probably shouldn’t be surprised if he comes home and I have a new 85mm fixed lens and a giant anthropologie bill and possibly a new kitchen table and chairs.

(Oh, Pottery Barn. It’s like you and your Benchwright collection are calling to me…BUY US! BUY US!)

I mean, he can hardly blame me…right?

RIGHT?

Especially because it totally hurts when I swallow now.

I’m probably also going to watch the last four episodes of The Wire without him too.

It’s only fair.

Oh, and I might buy the glasses that I didn’t choose.

Because Isabella is now complaining that her stomach hurts. 

OH MY GOD.

(Pray for me.)

(Or for my husband’s credit card bill.)

(Either way.)