So today’s just hunky-dory. TOTALLY THE BEST.
Here’s the scoop: I have the stomach flu? No, that really doesn’t deserve a question mark. I do. I MOST DEFINITELY DO. I totally have the stomach flu. My stomach seems bound and determined to exit my body through my mouth. Which is AWESOME. I mean, I suppose I could be pregnant, but that would be even MORE awe-inspiring than the virgin birth, because I didn’t even have an angel visit me that I remember recently. I did have a dream about a runaway tractor last night but I’m pretty sure you can’t get religiously impregnated by a runway tractor. OR CAN YOU.
BUT, you know how most people have jobs where they can call out sick when they have illnesses? Well, I’m not saying I DON’T have one of those jobs. Everyone ELSE I work with can call out sick – and does, ALL THE EFFING TIME – when they’re sick, or “sick,” let’s air-quote that sucker, because a lot of these “sicknesses” remind me a lot of the Breakfast-Clubbian girlfriend-in-Niagara-Falls, to be perfectly frank. But not me! Because I somehow (DAMMIT) inherited this stupid thing called a work ethic? And I knew this morning, my probably-dying-because-she’s-out-sick-more-than-she’s-here coworker needed the morning off to do…something, honestly, I don’t know, I don’t pay attention when she talks to me, I PRETEND I’m paying attention, I look, for all intents and purposes, like I’m paying attention, but really I’m counting backwards from 1,000 by 13s, or I’m thinking about how many ways there are to prepare chicken, or I’m wondering if a person could get away with murder if you could convince a jury the victim was really, REALLY annoying. SO! I knew, if I called out sick this morning (as I was lying on the bathroom floor thinking, “MAN BUT YOU SHOULD CLEAN THIS BATHROOM FLOOR MORE EW”) the following would happen:
- There would be no one to answer the phones, causing everyone to FREAK THE HELL OUT;
- I would get a million phone calls, asking me “how do I answer the phones?” and what would be the point of going back to bed if the phone kept ringing every five frigging seconds?
- When I got back to work, probably tomorrow, my boss would give me “the talk,” which is this: “ Amy, you know, you really can’t just call out sick, we RELY on you to BE here and WORK, no matter WHAT, and I don’t think you’re thinking about your CAREER when you just CALL OUT SICK, I mean, what if OTHER people were REALLY sick, and you were out sick, and you really put an added BURDEN on everyone ELSE, and also here is a project that I wasn’t GOING to give you, and it’s the WORST, and involves HEAVY LIFTING and MANUAL LABOR and TALKING TO PEOPLE WHO HATE YOU, and oh, no no no, don’t think of it as a PUNISHMENT, but, you know, it totally is. You look pale. Why do you look pale? It can’t possibly be because you spent the last twenty-four hours vomiting and you’re dehydrated and you feel like a toddler’s been punching you in the abs or anything. Maybe you should wear more makeup. Like LADIES do.”
(That was an exaggeration. Sort of. Barely.)
So, yeah. That’s my morning, sunshines. I feel STELLAR. Like a fancy person. Full of VIM AND VIGOR. Blergh. And I totally haven’t broken down into self-pity tears twice at ALL or anything. No not ME.
This is going to be a little disjointed. I’m pretty sure my brain’s not working correctly. Mostly because, you know how when you’re all full of food, or thinking about sex, and you’re unable to do anything else really all that well, because all your brainpower’s concentrated elsewhere? Right now, my brainpower’s concentrated on NOT VOMITING ALL OVER THE RECEPTION DESK. Because I can’t LEAVE the reception desk to go to the restroom? Because no one will come up and give me a break so I can do so? And I really, really don’t want to vomit in the wastebasket, because then I’ll have to deal with the cleanup of that, now won’t I. So really, my brain is thinking this: “Don’t vomit. DO NOT VOMIT. No, seriously. DON’T. I know you want to go and vomit on your boss. YOU CAN’T. I’m pretty sure that would be the straw that broke the camel’s vomity back over here. HOLD IT IN PUKEY PAULA.”
I will attempt for the next little while to not talk about vomiting. Sorry to those of you who are so grossed out right now.
So yesterday I met my friends C & C and we had dinner, and I wasn’t feeling the most healthy, but I was not aware it was the onset of death illness and I was really excited to see them. And I got Christmas presents! A book, penguin socks, and THIS:
I KNOW. An as-seen-on-TV thing! Which you all KNOW I love. And I totally like this one because the commercial makes it so CHEERFUL! The magnets sound so jolly! Click click click! But I cannot install it now, obviously, because it is WINTER. So I have to wait til summer to see if it works, or if it’s a huge pile of crap like all other as-seen-on-TV things in the world. It won’t be, right? RIGHT. Because hope springs eternal! And, powerful magnets!
Oh, crap, I just did a search for the image and there are some reviews that are…um…not so impressed with the magicness of either the mesh OR the magnets. THIS IS DISHEARTENING. People say that bugs STILL GET IN and the magnets ARE NOT MAGIC and the stitchery is awful and it does not line up and also pets are confused by it which is not at all what the commercials lead you to believe. I think these must be lies, because since when is something as-seen-on-TV not as it is purported to be? Since NEVER, is when. It WILL be magic, I’m telling you. Dumbcat will LOVE Magic Mesh. LOVE LOVE LOVE.
OK, I am going home early today, this is cuckoo-bananas. The receptionist finally got here and I’m sitting here alternately freezing and hot and also I’m pretty sure I’m going to yak at my own desk now. Are we sure I’m not pregnant by the tractor dream? I mean, totally sure? Stranger things have happened. I mean, prom babies and shit. Oh, wait, those people have been sexually active in the recent past, haven’t they. FINE, it’s just the stomach flu and not a tractor-dream magic-baby.
Oh, ok, let’s talk about this for a minute because it will take my mind off the fact that I’m most likely dying:
I just finished nefariously watching Season Two of Sherlock yesterday. No, no, I won’t spoil you, I’m most likely dying but I’m not an asshole.
It was the most amazing thing since probably Game of Thrones, I’m not going to lie. (Speaking of Game of Thrones, APRIL FIRST BABY! Sorry. Carry on.)
The first episode made me laugh and cry and laugh and cry; the second episode was totally frightening; and the final episode was so seat-of-my-pants suspenseful that I was on edge the entire ninety minutes, not to mention that I also cried so much that twice I had to pause it in order to clean my glasses because they got salty and smeary like a crazy-person.
The chemistry between Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman is some of the best work being done on television today; the writing is absolutely top-quality; the art direction is brilliance and just as good as anything you’d see in the movie theater; and the supporting cast (especially Andrew Scott’s Moriarty – if the guy doesn’t win some sort of award for that role, there’s no justice) creates a perfect, real, living-and-breathing world that is just utter and complete perfection. I don’t have enough good things to say. It’s already been greenlit for Season Three – thank you, whoever is in charge of such things, for being intelligent enough to realize this needs to continue! – and I want you all to watch so we can discuss. Now. Immediately. Because I have questions, and I want to discuss things, but, like I said, I don’t want to be an asshole, because it’s SO DAMN GOOD that if you go into it even a little spoiled I’d feel like I told you there was no Santa Claus. SHIT. I’m sorry. There’s totally a Santa Claus, Virginia. SHIT SHIT SHIT.
I think what hooks me about this show is this: the gray areas. I don’t like when people are all white-hats or all black-hats. I like people with the gray areas. I like people who have to think before they do the right thing. I like people who are conflicted and who are torn and who, maybe, ultimately, do the right thing, or maybe they don’t, but they, like us, don’t just immediately gravitate toward one choice or another – because life is one big gray area, isn’t it? There’s never one path or another; there’s never the right way or the wrong way. There are a million ways, any of which could branch off into a million more ways, and no one’s all good, and no one’s all bad, no matter how much we’d like to think we’re the hero all the time. I like a show that lets us see the conflict cross someone’s face – the “I could do this, but what if I didn’t.” I like seeing them make the hard choices, even when it kills them. I like seeing people fail, sometimes. I like when there’s some reality in my unreality.
So, in short – GO WATCH SHERLOCK. You can get Season One on Netflix right now; Season Two comes (legally) to PBS in the US in May, or you can (ahem) find it online right now, not that I’d recommend that, no no no, totally I would not at all recommend that, what are you, a pirate, arr, matey?
OK. I’m going to do ONE MORE HOUR OF WORK then I’m going home and I’m collapsing in my bed with a bottle of Pepto Bismol and I’m not getting up until tomorrow I totally mean it. Gah. Also, if I end up having a dream tractor baby in nine months, I told you all so and you poo-poohed me. Who’ll look foolish THEN I ask you? Oh, me? Yes, me, yes, that’s right, I will, that’s right.