Wednesday, September 03, 2008
For your eyes only
I can laugh about it now. But at the time I wanted to die of embarrassment. Everyone to whom I have told the story wants to die of embarrassment for me. Including my therapist, and if you knew her... yeah.
The whole reason I'm thinking of it is because I was on Facebook this morning, and updating my Google calendar at the same time, and I noticed that it was Wednesday, September 24th - my friend Jaime's birthday. So I went to her Facebook page and wished her happy birthday. I checked twice before doing this. I have a history of getting Jaime's birthday wrong. For years I was convinced it was October 24th.
Needless to say, today is not September 24th. Today is September 3rd. I should know this, because yesterday, September 2nd, was my 8th wedding anniversary, and the day before that was September 1, my older son's 7th birthday.
So Jaime asks me, basically, "WTF? FREAK." and I'm all, "Do not F with me you meanie, I checked twice!" and then I'm like, "Whoa, it's not Sept 24," and she was like "WTF? I ASK AGAIN," and I decided that I should get offline before I really make an ass of myself. I mean, to someone who doesn't already know I'm an ass.
See, for the past two days I've been sick. The gut rot that the boys and Bob got last Sunday, the night before school started? GOD. It ripped through second grade like an electric shock. THIRTEEN out of the twenty-four individuals who spend time in that room were out at least one day vomiting, peeing out their butt, being in hell. They had to call the health department.
And I got it yesterday. I was so miserable that I couldn't even vomit; too exhausted to even read a magazine - and I had Fashion Rocks! Can you think of a less demanding piece of print? So uncomfortable that I couldn't even sleep. My guts were sore. My body was sore. Today I was still so weak that taking a shower was an extremely risky proposition.
So I really had no business being online this morning. Last time I was online when I was sick, I received an email from a prominent person in my (largely former) profession. I felt the need to comment on this email, and went to forward it to, in point of fact, Jaime. Among other things, I complained that the prominent person in question habitually fails to place any value on any person not possessed of a penis.
I had a fever of 103. I was, in fact, Hot Blooded. And then I made a mistake. I hit Reply instead of Forward.
Shit hitting a fan. Have you thought about that metaphor, ever? Shit being slung all around the room, far and wide? The sheer amount of time and effort it would take to clean all that up? Well, it's a good metaphor.
Like I said, I can laugh about it now. Heh. Heh, heh.