The long day started well enough, but I should have known my unusual lethargy of the night before was telling me something...soon, I knew the secret. Fever, chills, nausea...but there was work to be done. I sat at my desk, using alcohol cleanser like mad and rarely leaving the area. I detest the Sick Worker bullshit so a dollop of self-loathing was just the thing to sharpen the edge of my misery.
But then some folks tell me that all those singular conference calls sent before the holiday would have to be edited to a new time to permit the west coast party to join at a reasonable hour...well...tell that to the UK Big Cheese who Does Not want to take a late call.
I tried, really I did, to be polite in the face of the passive aggressively issued news - complete with smiley. But I had to just close the window abruptly and accept that the task - and the remaining calls to be issued - would have to wait for another day.
Of course, even in my flailing misery I know I have nothing on Brigid who is hobbling about and doing the fun tour known as Physical Therapy. Still, this is my pity party, bitches. You're just the crashers who are realizing "this is not the party you are looking for". [Insert dismissive hand gesture - you know you want to.]
And you know those damn dogs did not offer a smidgen of sympathy. I even put on my snowflake pajamas - see? No walk! Yay! No walk! Right? Er...no, no. NO WALK. GAH! I pulled Trooper's sweats on over my clothes and stomped the entire way, allowing no gratuitous sniffing.
Drag my sick ass outta the house? No marking for you!
And this...this waste of bandwidth and pixels? Hell, I don't know. Got tired of listening to my book and cannot abide the whole Iowa Cock-up. The show they make of it, now! My goodness, I feel my IQ dropping just glancing at the pre-staged stages! Anyone over 60 years old cannot comprehend how different it all is - that Long Con - from their youth. But they will still watch it, still play along, thinking the game isn't rigged.
If there is an upside...my sinus crisis prevents my complete surrender to the dogs' fart assault. Bastards.