Oh my. I feel like something the cat not only dragged in but stomped on, then ingested and hacked up 20 minutes later along with her own hair, the disembodied legs of a cockroach, and a hint of lint.
Pause for cough.
So, yeah, I’m sick. I probably have “what’s going around”, which makes me want to cringe. I like to think that I am better than that, that I am somehow above it all, that I am immune to the ailments and maladies and afflictions that ail, mal, and aff more common, less fabulous people who wear sensible shoes and scrunchies and don’t see anything wrong with letting their significant others run around town wearing pleats. Or who can actually utter the words “significant other” without wanting to gouge out their own eyes with a grapefruit spoon.
I must confess that the first day of being sick has always been kind of fun. The first day is for indulgence, for pajamas and the sofa, alternating between naps and movies, the thrill of fruity cough drops and sympathy. As early as the second day, though, much of the glamour has evaporated. The decadence of not having showered for a day is supplanted by disgust at the delinquence, and I feel like a degenerate greaseball. I don’t even dare glance in the mirror for fear of seeing a hybrid of Medusa and Charles Nelson Reilly. Certainly not the fairest of them all.
But now, slouching my way toward the end of the third day of this nonsense, I’m more than ready to breathe in air that isn’t heavy with cough spores and misery. In a moment I will cast off my cushy red blanket, shower (again!), cloak myself in something more becoming than flannel pajamas, apply sufficient face paint so I appear slightly less dead than Michael Douglas, and make my way, pirouette by pirouette, to the store to purchase chocolate soy milk.
Please try to contain your jealousy.
You got yours, too?
This made me sad!
SAME IN MY BLDG, TOO!
Jodi! Just think of all those lonely, abandoned, unloved phonebooks out there in the world just dying to be fingered through! It’s so sad!!!
Jodi, your post inspired me to hide all of my drugs in a phonebook altered with a utility knife a la Shawshank Redemption. Just think of the possibilities! Turn an unloved phonebook into a fruit bowl today!
They remind me of my grandmother’s house… just as cushioned toilet seats and rotary phones do. Oh wait, I am old enough to remember a rotary phone in my own house! If only I had had the foresight to save it! Who knew anything would ever change??
In Denver, we have a few different phone book companies. Something I really don’t need is competition from the phone book companies.
Their abandoned periodicals litter the streets, slowly dissolving into a murky pool of yellowing apathy.
Nice to see you, Jodi!
Jodi,
Are you so busy reading every line of your phone book out of guilt (or, god forbid, calling everyone) that you don’t have time for a new post?
Let your fingers do the walking away from the phone book and on to the keyboard.
I hate my phonebook. It is slightly too big for my drawer of unloved items in my kitchen. On the rare occassion that I need my mandoline or who-am-I-kidding my Weight Watchers reference guide my drawer gets stuck on this book-o-numbers. Would I throw it away though? Never. Not until the next one comes. You just never know.
Great post. Love it!