Oh man, usually at this point, I'd be bursting with awesome news about my new job and my New Years shenanigans and my Top Ten Secrets to a Bangin' Bod by March! (hint: diet and exercise!), but I've been waylaid by the flu and have spent the last three days marooned on Couch Island, surrounded by the detritus of my sickness: bottles of Gatorade, various fever-fighters, ginger ale, the first season of Arrested Development, and roughly one thousand used tissues, which weren't Kleenex, but rather bulk-purchased toilet paper. It's what they use in prison and it's made from repurposed essays written barely literate sheep shearers on treebark about How They Spent Their Summer Vacations.
So this is an apology post, a truncated version of what would usually be 2011's incandescent starting point, but due to my febrile state and the fact that I accidentally just drooled all over my day-three sweatpants when I tried to blow my nose (don't ask), I think I might take a raincheck on that one. I know on the heels of my lazy recipe post last week, it's inspiring no confidence from my seven loyal readers (hi Mom!), but trust me: the pull of Couch Island is intense.
But I vow on my empty Gatorade bottles (according the pharmacist, diluting the electrolyte replenisher with 50% water makes it easier on flu-addled systems, for your next tango with this beast) that I'll be back soon, with pithy and self-centered observations about Toronto, bikes, Rob Ford's ridiculous Member's Only horribleness, fashion, TV, and whatever else I usually yammer on about. Deal? In the meantime, send me healing voodoo vibes over the interwebs, and hope fervently that you don't get this, because it's a doozy. I've felt like I could easily win an award for Best Performance by a Zombie Who May Not Be Entirely Acting. Gahhh....brains....although I'll settle for soup and season two of Arrested Development.