My bro stuffed his belly last night with raw dough making babushka... boticelli... borealis...some kind of traditional Polish pastry with Todd (who is an amazing chef, especially around the holidays!) After spending some quality time in the bathroom, he's flat out. We try to ascribe his malaise to his indulgence, but Todd sagely relates the tale of the 24 hour stomach flu that had lingered amongst their walls for months.
I explain away the fatigue, the nausea I feel: I'm just jet-lagged. I say I've just eaten too much Christmas chocolate.
My presents remain unmade, unwrapped. My Christmas cards are yet blank. I'm achieving union with Todd's la-z-boy chair and watching more TV than I've seen in a year, but motion is somehow out of the question. I'm grateful that my guts, unlike my brother's are remaining intact, however tenuously. This is shaping up to be... an unusual Christmas.
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