04.29.2003 - 5:15 p.m.
Acting on the sage advice of
reader Anna A., (who sent wonderful cold recovery tips,
except for the crazy 'avoid booze' part - come on, ha ha, alcohol
is a disinfectant!) I stayed home from work today to concentrate
on banishing the evil cold I picked up over the weekend. I curled
up in bed with a soothingly predictable book (See Jane Date, and all I can say is that
whole Bridget Jones genre totally works for me in terms of sheer
brainless entertainment) and generally wallowed in sloth until
a vague sense of shame finally drove me into the shower.
Now I have the pop-eyed "what
day is it" sort of feeling that I always get after spending
too long in bed. And yes, I'm sure I should be cleaning the kitchen
or doing laundry or vacuuming up some of the giant Tribble-like
wads of dog fur littering the house, but fuck it, I'm recuperating.
(Speaking of dog fur, the other
morning I looked outside and there was a tiny little bird plucking
up strands of dog hair, presumably to line its nest. Awww. Isn't
that CUTE? So now whenever JB brushes Dog and extracts a massive
hunk, I instruct him to toss it outside "for the birds".
Now, in addition to the furballs in our house, our backyard is
littered with strange hairy tumbleweeds, blowing gently around
and probably terrifying any bird within twenty feet.)
I think, knock Ikea woodlike
substance, that I've headed the cold off at the pass. I'm still
a little spacey and snortley, but that urge to claw wretchedly
at my nose like Uma Thurman after she hoovered that line of smack
in Pulp Fiction is gone.
Staying home from work is a
remarkably easy process at Workplace. They fervently support
a "Sick? Leave!" policy, meaning they actually don't
want you to drag your mucus-laden self to the office. This is
drastically different from jobs I have had in the past. Such
as Kinko's, where you would have to call in and speak with the
manager, and basically describe something akin to having an organ
actually protruding from your body in the hopes that you will
avoid The Disappointed Response, but you would get it anyway
because the manager just wants to take off his fucking apron
and go home and now you, Little Miss Boo Hoo I'm Sick, are screwing
up the schedule.
It's weird, whenever I'm at
work and I daydream about being at home, I imagine myself bustling
about in this whirlwind of activity, catching up on all the random
odds and ends you typically have to take care of on the weekend.
And in reality when I take a day off I become entombed in a productivity-suck,
periodically checking work email or reading journals (WHY
hasn't she updated? Doesn't she KNOW I'm at home with NOTHING
to do?). The most mind-engaging activity I have embarked
upon today was determining the best digit and placement for a
Right foot, "index"
toe, just above middle joint, if you want to know. See?
Well now! Having taken
a digital photo of my FOOT, resized it in ImageReady, uploaded
it to Diaryland, and linked it from this entry, I have now significantly
upped today's number of at-home achievements. Go me! Everything's
coming up Milhouse!
go back :::
comments so far.
I have moved. - 1.03.2005
Obviously, a work in progress. - 12.27.2004
Happy holidays! - 12.24.2004
Listen, I am not a complete dick, it's not like I want Joe to die alone surrounded by cats or something. - 12.23.2004
Plus I am convinced my butt is extra big when it's upside down. - 12.22.2004