Something nice actually happened at work on Tuesday. Mr. Meeting, entirely unprovoked, brought the paralegals ice cream sandwiches.
The rest of the week has been utterly boring on a stick. While I am somewhat glad that the case which was going to make me travel again next week settled (because it was one that we had been told to get rid of, and if we’d had to actually try it, it would have meant a week of 20-hour days), having it settle means that I have not jack shit to do at work. Oh, sure. I could put paper in folders. As the matter of fact, there are several folders which need to be paper-fortified sitting in my office. But we all know that my hatred of filing blazes with the heat of a thousand suns, and I would rather surf the net and whine. It’s kind of strange that I’m bored, because last week, I was out sick two days, and the days I was here were mostly spent sniffling, coughing, and generally wishing I was at home. I actually went to the doctor, because at that point, the case hadn’t settled, and I knew that getting on yet another airplane when I couldn’t breathe through my nose was not going to be very pleasant, so I figured I should get some drugs and attempt to recover. And I will admit that I was hoping that one of the drugs would be Happy Fun Narcotic-Laced Cough Syrup.
Alas, my doctor was being a douchebag. He gave me some antibiotics and sent me on my merry way. Problem was, the over-the-counter concoctions were NOT DOING ANYTHING, and I was waking up all night coughing and sniffling. So I call the nurse. Bitch doesn’t call me back. I call the next day, when I drug my sorry ass to work, but still felt like a steaming pile, and she was not in the least sympathetic. She recommended some different cold medicine. Mr. Meeting told me to go to the doctor downtown who everyone calls “Dr. Feelgood” because he will dispense the prescriptions freely. Mr. Meeting called them for me, but unfortunately, Dr. Feelgood’s partner was out, and they couldn’t get me an appointment. The only good thing about all of this is that I have almost no appetite whatsoever, and I still don’t….I can sorta breathe, but I’m still plugged up, and nothing sounds good food-wise. Maybe another week of this and my pants will fit the way they’re supposed to again. What’s that movie line? Something about being one stomach flu away from my goal weight? (Well, in my case, it’s probably more like one mild case of pancreatic cancer away from my goal weight, but the principle applies.) For those who wondered, St. Louis sucked monkey nuts. First, because of how early we left on Saturday, there was a lot of boring time. Second, we had no rental car. (Fortunately, there was a Borders next door.) Third, the hearing was bad, through no fault of our own….a witness flaked the hell out. Fourth, due to said lack of vehicle, we ate at the same restaurant twice a day, every day, from Sunday through Thursday. It was a nice restaurant, with many tasty seafood entrees, but by Wednesday, I felt as though I might be growing fins and gills, or perhaps a hard shell and some pincers.
This is St. Paddy’s Day weekend, so get drunk and wear green, but make sure you don’t drink so much your FACE goes green, mmkay? And think happy thoughts, because Lando MIGHT actually get the whole weekend off, for the first time in a zillion years, so continue beaming the “YOU WILL NOT BE AN ASSTARD” rays into his boss’s brain for the next 48 hours.