best call ever
Sep. 12th, 2005 09:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7Woke up this morning. Didn't feel too bad, although had spent about 2 hrs tangled in blankets and unable to either sleep or wake. Puttered, pondered. Had thought of calling in; decided it would be best to do so. (Head a bit sore, legs v. tired.) Called in, and was amused by fact that couldn't actually form words on my first try. Must've sounded like I was acting when i left the message: *rasp rasp* can't come in today *cough* so sorry.
Anyhow. Got into the shower, did some intensive hair removal (I don't do it terribly often, being blond, not very hairy, and blessed/cursed with an inattentive boyfriend), was starting to feel guilty. I shouldn't have called in. I know they were already short one person today, and I just made it worse. It wouldn't have been busy. I could've handled it. I don't feel that bad.
I drove Z to work, and stopped by the bank to deposit rather a shocking sum of money I'd accumulated in cash (I did come home with a $100 bill yesterday, which always makes one feel quite rich). Got home, sat down, read email and lj, and promptly zonked out stone cold on the couch for two hours. I awoke, moved indoors, and zonked out even flatter on Z's bed (my bed was farther away) for another hour and a half.
I awoke and was groggy and had a headache to end all headaches. This thing is brutal. Food and considerable quantities of drink haven't eased it at all, so I've moved on to the 12-year-old Scotch in hopes of a miracle cure. When I was a child Dad's last-ditch pain remedy was always a single-malt Scotch (he drinks Laphroaig); single-malts are a little outside my budget but Chivas comes in little $10 containers and I can usually manage that, for special occasions and then I drink so little of it that I can make it last. (I just finished Chris's wedding flask of it, and if the pain doesn't stop I'll crack the my-birthday flask.) I do wish I could afford Laphroaig. It's sort of mellower.
In the interim I managed to doll myself up sufficiently to attend a function of Z's work, a Best of the City party where they announced the winners of their readership's poll-- best park, best steak, best bartender, best place to get blind drunk, best thing to do in the winter, etc. They did it really cleverly this year, inviting all the nominee restaurants to turn up with platters of food. I ate two pieces of Sweet Tooth's double chocolate mousse cake; ate two pulled-pork sandwiches from Kentucky Greg's; ate a half a Bagel Jay's bagel with artichoke cream cheese; ate a bit of La Nova pizza and one barbeque wing (they're good, but I don't know why people mail-order them from Florida); listened to a fiddle band and sat up in the stage to ehlp Z push buttons on the computer to run the slideshows.
Z actually complimented me on my hair being cute (I have it all up in braids wrapped around each other on the back of my head), which was unexpected. He doesn't usually comment on my appearance. He was quite cute tonight. So was I, of course: new black halter top plus the long red-purple velvet skirt I bought in Italy in 1998.
But my head wouldn't stop hurting, so I only took a few pictures. Oog. More scotch.
In short, am so so so glad I didn't go to work today.
Anyhow. Got into the shower, did some intensive hair removal (I don't do it terribly often, being blond, not very hairy, and blessed/cursed with an inattentive boyfriend), was starting to feel guilty. I shouldn't have called in. I know they were already short one person today, and I just made it worse. It wouldn't have been busy. I could've handled it. I don't feel that bad.
I drove Z to work, and stopped by the bank to deposit rather a shocking sum of money I'd accumulated in cash (I did come home with a $100 bill yesterday, which always makes one feel quite rich). Got home, sat down, read email and lj, and promptly zonked out stone cold on the couch for two hours. I awoke, moved indoors, and zonked out even flatter on Z's bed (my bed was farther away) for another hour and a half.
I awoke and was groggy and had a headache to end all headaches. This thing is brutal. Food and considerable quantities of drink haven't eased it at all, so I've moved on to the 12-year-old Scotch in hopes of a miracle cure. When I was a child Dad's last-ditch pain remedy was always a single-malt Scotch (he drinks Laphroaig); single-malts are a little outside my budget but Chivas comes in little $10 containers and I can usually manage that, for special occasions and then I drink so little of it that I can make it last. (I just finished Chris's wedding flask of it, and if the pain doesn't stop I'll crack the my-birthday flask.) I do wish I could afford Laphroaig. It's sort of mellower.
In the interim I managed to doll myself up sufficiently to attend a function of Z's work, a Best of the City party where they announced the winners of their readership's poll-- best park, best steak, best bartender, best place to get blind drunk, best thing to do in the winter, etc. They did it really cleverly this year, inviting all the nominee restaurants to turn up with platters of food. I ate two pieces of Sweet Tooth's double chocolate mousse cake; ate two pulled-pork sandwiches from Kentucky Greg's; ate a half a Bagel Jay's bagel with artichoke cream cheese; ate a bit of La Nova pizza and one barbeque wing (they're good, but I don't know why people mail-order them from Florida); listened to a fiddle band and sat up in the stage to ehlp Z push buttons on the computer to run the slideshows.
Z actually complimented me on my hair being cute (I have it all up in braids wrapped around each other on the back of my head), which was unexpected. He doesn't usually comment on my appearance. He was quite cute tonight. So was I, of course: new black halter top plus the long red-purple velvet skirt I bought in Italy in 1998.
But my head wouldn't stop hurting, so I only took a few pictures. Oog. More scotch.
In short, am so so so glad I didn't go to work today.
