Stupid Work Ethic
Week before last, I was taking care of a friend who was really sick, but couldn't stay in her apartment due to mold issues that management at her complex is refusing to take care of. Since she's allergic to mold, it was making her worse, so I got her to my house as often as possible.
For my troubles, I caught a nasty, nasty cold off of her.
Last Wednesday night (not this past, the one before), I got sick as a dog. Thursday morning, I had to drive to Sacramento. Driving five hundred miles when you can't breathe is fun, after all. Saturday, I drive home, I sleep lots on Sunday, and on Monday morning, I trudge back to work at six am with the remnants of my cold. Stupid work ethic.
Well, it seems that one of my managers has the same sort of work ethic; he came in Monday morning with the remnants of his flu. He gave it to me.
Wednesday (this past), I was at work all afternoon and night. Twice I was coughing so badly I had to walk away from customers to try to get a breath of air and maybe drink something. Second lady gave me a mint, which worked for about five minutes (bless her soul), so I scrounged at the registers until I found a bag of Jolly Ranchers. They kept me breathing the rest of the day.
Suffice it to say, I hate the flu. I haven't been back to work since. Sleep and more sleep, and apparently, delirious phone calls to friends. I am informed by Robin that I told her that I had to 'go make friends with the pretty colours' after asking her to teach me to skitter down roadsides, and by opalinereverie that I demanded of her, "Let me tell you about the weasels!"
And now I'm going out of my mind with boredom. I don't do cooped up well. But I don't want to go out as my dizzy spells are coming and going without much warning.
But the best of all? In my idiocy, I told Mom I was sick with the flu. Now she's been trying to guilt me into getting tested for the swine flu. She's convinced I have it and that I'm going to die of it.
There's a greater chance of dying of the normal flu than the swine flu.
And frankly, it doesn't matter what kind of flu I have; there's no cure for any kind of them, only palliatives, of which I'm taking plenty. (God bless NyQuil.)
You should all give me entertaining stories to cheer me up.
For my troubles, I caught a nasty, nasty cold off of her.
Last Wednesday night (not this past, the one before), I got sick as a dog. Thursday morning, I had to drive to Sacramento. Driving five hundred miles when you can't breathe is fun, after all. Saturday, I drive home, I sleep lots on Sunday, and on Monday morning, I trudge back to work at six am with the remnants of my cold. Stupid work ethic.
Well, it seems that one of my managers has the same sort of work ethic; he came in Monday morning with the remnants of his flu. He gave it to me.
Wednesday (this past), I was at work all afternoon and night. Twice I was coughing so badly I had to walk away from customers to try to get a breath of air and maybe drink something. Second lady gave me a mint, which worked for about five minutes (bless her soul), so I scrounged at the registers until I found a bag of Jolly Ranchers. They kept me breathing the rest of the day.
Suffice it to say, I hate the flu. I haven't been back to work since. Sleep and more sleep, and apparently, delirious phone calls to friends. I am informed by Robin that I told her that I had to 'go make friends with the pretty colours' after asking her to teach me to skitter down roadsides, and by opalinereverie that I demanded of her, "Let me tell you about the weasels!"
And now I'm going out of my mind with boredom. I don't do cooped up well. But I don't want to go out as my dizzy spells are coming and going without much warning.
But the best of all? In my idiocy, I told Mom I was sick with the flu. Now she's been trying to guilt me into getting tested for the swine flu. She's convinced I have it and that I'm going to die of it.
There's a greater chance of dying of the normal flu than the swine flu.
And frankly, it doesn't matter what kind of flu I have; there's no cure for any kind of them, only palliatives, of which I'm taking plenty. (God bless NyQuil.)
You should all give me entertaining stories to cheer me up.