Henry spent much of last night thrashing around in bed. And woke up with a sore throat and fever. The good news -- it's not strep. The bad news, it's a virus that will have to run its course, taking its own sweet time. The badder news, the fever that had disappeared during the day was back, and higher, at bedtime tonight. So Tim -- the one of us who has a real job with real benefits and real sick days to take -- stayed home with him.
While I went to call center hell and had people tell me to go "F" myself. (Technically, it was the woman in the cube next to me who was the recipient of that particular epithet, but I was on the receiving end of several quite similar sentiments.)
Then the dog puked.
And Tim picked a tick off himself after a walk on the trail near our house.
This afternoon, I found out my therapist doesn't have any appointment times available for me until at least June.
The house is a mess, I couldn't get my lazy butt to the gym today, and we were so desperately out of groceries that for dinner, I actually ate Lite Spam. You think I'm joking. (If you could see my face), does this look like the face of someone who's joking about Spam?
And NO. I haven't heard about the job.
Comments