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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 toe ring.

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!

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