So yesterday I got this email from my mom:
After a few great weeks, we are back to the rollercoaster health again. Dad is having a biopsy on 11/10. (Five days before his 75th!!!!! B/day). Dr. Miller, bless him, found a growth on the inside of Dad's lower lip. He is starting on a diabetes med. This is all pretty upsetting but we will get through it as we have with everything else. So for right now he has a catscan coming up of the aortic artery (checkup). Thyroid ultrasound in Nov. We need a secretary to keep track of appts. Just thought I would pass on the news. Love, Mom
Diabetes med? Biopsy? What?
And then I promptly threw up into my office trash can. I took this as a sign that I really should maybe go home, as it was not shaping up to be a good day.
So now we can add diabetes to the list of assorted cancers and heart problems and blocked arteries and suspicious nodules and all the other shit my dad has had to put up with. And another mystery tumor! Yay.
Am so pissed at the universe on his behalf right now. I don't think I'm going to accept its calls anymore.
And! Then! To make yesterday just entirely peachy, I woke up with what I thought was a nasty-ass hangover. Which didn't make sense, as I really didn't drink that much the night before (unlike Andie, my dear drinking companion, who I fear may never recover and just might mean it this time when she swears to never drink again). But you know, am old and wussy now with the bedtimes and such.
But nooooo. Is flu. Am achy. Coughy. Just enough of a fever to have the whole Jesus-I'm-cold-no-shit-I'm-burning-up routine. Living on saltines. Feel like I benchpressed 300 pounds and then ran a marathon last night instead of sleeping. Head may explode.
So I'm at home, right? Right?
HA. You silly people. You amuse me so.
No, I'm at work, because I am one bad ass motherfucker. I also have an issue coming in today, a non-get-out-able conference call and a bazillion assorted busy work things to do. AND I HAVE NO ASSISTANT TO DO SHIT FOR ME SO I MUST DO ALL THE SHIT.
Wah. Weep. Etc.
So here I am, ranting into a feverish void and screaming at everyone who approaches my office door to stay the fuck away from me. Unclean! Unclean!
(Jason's sick too, so I am getting the worst service. He made me come DOWNSTAIRS last night to eat my chicken soup, and he refused to make me a cup of tea while we were watching Lost, EVEN THOUGH I waited until the commercials to ask. Is useless. Is also the one who got sick first so I blame him entirely, Mr. Germy Man.)
Now you must excuse me, for I must go nod politely during a conference call about complicated financial things and try not to vomit, because it is being transcribed.
MR. AUTHOR: So that's where I see the market going in the next six months. Clearly there are a lot of opportunities in certain...
MS. STORCH: *RETCHES*
EVERYBODY: *SOUNDS OF DISGUST*
MR. AUTHOR: I'd like to request a new editor please.