Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Hunkered down
Ah yes.... those oh-so pleasurable sick days...
Got up this morning, played with the poog, showered, dressed, went to work. Normal hump day. But after about an hour or so at work, my stomach started to feel as if it was eating itself, not unlike those lovely Sunday mornings when I take the little, white, bullshit pill that likes to kick me. Damn Fossilmax, anyhoo.
So there I was at the Appreciation Factory, diligently working on a presentation, when I realized my stomach was in distress. My boss walked in, took one look at me, and said, "Are you okay?!" Musta been a little green around the gills. He kindly said I could leave for the day after we finished the presentation (that's due on the 8th). Two hours later, I was out the door.
Once home, the first thing I did was turn on the space heater and swathe myself in my most comfy sweat suit. Hey, life is mighty purty at Chez Cooter. All afternoon, I made one with the sofa, watched tv, and worked on the New York Times Sunday crossword, all the while trying to keep Gus from jumping on my tender belly.
Now, the one thing I hate about being home sick (or belly achin' or whatever) is that unless I have a life-threatening fever, I feel like I should be cleaning or organizing something. Did I do this? Hell no. But I got in an hour and a half of 'King of the Hill', an hour of 'The Simpsons', and an hour of 'Sixty Minutes: Hump Day'. Now the Dub is on and my stomach ache is coming back.
And dammit, this is after I made a good comfort meal: my fried chicken (which involves white wine, chicken broth, shallots, course-ground mustard and fresh dill), mashed potatoes with sour cream and garlic, and green beans with a little lemon butter. It was damn good. And now here it is about half past eight, and I'm ready for bed.
Why am I writing about this? Good question. Must be a testamonial to how frikkin' bored I get with my own company at times. Hmmm. I think I'll go wash the dishes now... g'night.
Who dat snappin' back? |
Got up this morning, played with the poog, showered, dressed, went to work. Normal hump day. But after about an hour or so at work, my stomach started to feel as if it was eating itself, not unlike those lovely Sunday mornings when I take the little, white, bullshit pill that likes to kick me. Damn Fossilmax, anyhoo.
So there I was at the Appreciation Factory, diligently working on a presentation, when I realized my stomach was in distress. My boss walked in, took one look at me, and said, "Are you okay?!" Musta been a little green around the gills. He kindly said I could leave for the day after we finished the presentation (that's due on the 8th). Two hours later, I was out the door.
Once home, the first thing I did was turn on the space heater and swathe myself in my most comfy sweat suit. Hey, life is mighty purty at Chez Cooter. All afternoon, I made one with the sofa, watched tv, and worked on the New York Times Sunday crossword, all the while trying to keep Gus from jumping on my tender belly.
Now, the one thing I hate about being home sick (or belly achin' or whatever) is that unless I have a life-threatening fever, I feel like I should be cleaning or organizing something. Did I do this? Hell no. But I got in an hour and a half of 'King of the Hill', an hour of 'The Simpsons', and an hour of 'Sixty Minutes: Hump Day'. Now the Dub is on and my stomach ache is coming back.
And dammit, this is after I made a good comfort meal: my fried chicken (which involves white wine, chicken broth, shallots, course-ground mustard and fresh dill), mashed potatoes with sour cream and garlic, and green beans with a little lemon butter. It was damn good. And now here it is about half past eight, and I'm ready for bed.
Why am I writing about this? Good question. Must be a testamonial to how frikkin' bored I get with my own company at times. Hmmm. I think I'll go wash the dishes now... g'night.
