Mr. D brought us home a nasty virus for Christmas. I confess, I do not like this gift as much as the plane tickets to Cozumel (Christmas 1998) or the potting bench and karate lessons (Christmas 2006). He spent the weekend laid up in bed. I am sludging through the Monday Morning Housework Routine with all the vigor of Britney Spears performing at a music awards ceremony. Sans sequined bikini and stripper pole, of course. (I must feel like dog crap--I mentioned Britney Spears in my blog. Twice now.)
As my eyes water and my right nostril plugs itself up yet again, I'll take a break from mopping up the debris from my Christmas Baking Extravaganza this weekend (sugar cookie cut outs, Bachelor Buttons, caramel corn and fudge--whee! Lest you judge my freaky ambition to have the pantry packed and the gifts wrapped, do know that my side of the family tree is visiting this weekend for their Christmas celebration--quite simply, things must be done.).
Mrs. G over at Derfwad Manor posted today about her affection for the quintessential Colin Firth. I just watched Love, Actually last night (Mommy's New Holiday Movie Classic Pick--balances out my Old School Pick White Christmas. Yes, the musical version.) and mentioned to Mr. D that Colin Firth would replace him very nicely in a pinch. Or not in a pinch.
Mr. D just didn't get it. I'm sending him over to Derfwad Manor tonight and maybe then he will.
I bet Colin Firth doesn't give viral infections as Christmas gifts.
I bet Liam Neeson and Alan Rickman and Andrew Lincoln don't either.