Monday, August 3, 2009

What I've been doing and why you should care

I'm just kidding. You shouldn't care.
And I haven't been doing anything but lying on the couch watching Netflix and whimpering.
Oh, and working. Stupid stupid stupid I know, but we don't really have a plan for sickness at the restaurant - we have a tight shift and a small staff and we all need the money, honey.

So, I dosed my self up with horse-tranquilizer sized doses of pain medication and muscle relaxers which make me less likely to collapse in a coughing fit.

And washed my hands often.

And didn't touch the silverware.

Or the glasses.

And I waitressed my tired little heart out.

Until my co-workers sort of cornered me, and said that someone was being sent home.

And that someone was me.

I tried not to be offended. They gave me the option of staying, but. It wasn't really an option. We all knew it. I was sick. It was time to throw in the towel. So I went home. And cried a little bit. Because my chest hurt. And because I hate being sick. And because I am a whiny little bitch. And then I fell asleep. I woke up when my husband (who was pretty annoyed at this point) turned on the ceiling light and woke me up. Turns out, he had gotten a phone call while I was sleeping, and Lucy was supposed to be at a birthday party down the street.


The present was at the end of my bed - unwrapped. Just add that to the list of things I was not handling responsibly. I pouted for a while, mostly because I felt like an ass. But also because I was sad for my daughter, who was picked up and carried at a high rate of speed (by my husband, her father, in his sweaty work clothes) to the party. He didn't put her in her party dress. He didn't know about the present until after he came home and woke me up. So she attended high tea in a dirty Paul Frank t-shirt. The party was supposed to be from 2:30-4:30. At 4:25, all of the children were escorted off the property - I spotted them from the living room window and Sami went running back up the street again with the (now wrapped) birthday present clutched to his chest, to retrieve our 4 year old from the cul de sac where they were all getting handed off to parents.

Party. Over.
Why didn't I think of that ?

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