The Sick Day


I called in sick today.  This is notable, because it’s something I never do – I’ve worked for the same company for 6 years and can count on one hand the times I’ve begged off for a sick day.

It’s not like I’m saving them up – they are only good for one year.  If you don’t use them, you can sell them back ( I don’t, which is fodder for a future post entitled “Stupid Girl”) so it’s not like I’m hoarding them towards early retirement or anything.

It’s a karmic fear – we earn one sick day per quarter, and I am convinced that if I call in sick on any given day, within 48 hours I will contract something horrible, like Ebola.  If I can function, I go.  I go with a headache, I go with a stuffy nose, I go, I go, I go.

Is that a work ethic?  I’m not sure.

But today I am really sick – achy, stuffy, sneezy and working on day 3 of a fever that has me doing some really strange crap.  No Elsie, the milk does NOT go in the bathroom cupboard.  And the water will boil faster if you turn the stove on.

I’m pretty sure it’s the H1N1 virus, since the walking petri dish my husband works with tested positive for it last week. So thanks, Linda, for turning my family into a group of feverish mouth-breathing Sleestaks.

And so, since I’m home with nothing to read, and a complete inability to focus on my writing (I can’t follow my own story line – uh-oh) I thought I’d try something new.  Hence, the Blog.

Blogging.  Ugh.

Why does everyone with a keyboard believe that their every thought, action and picture of their kids, dogs, etc., need to be shared with the world?

Yet, here I am.

To give myself some credit (if I don’t, who will?), I won’t be posting that which should be relegated to email, Facebook or Twitter, and I won’t bore you with the minutiae of what I’m cooking for dinner (I am not a chef), where I’m going this weekend (not a tour guide) or why the (insert political party of choice) are bent on destroying America (what the f* do I know?).

I’m just going to try and entertain you.  And by that I mean make you laugh.  Because the world is pretty damn funny most of the time, yet I find that very few people are aware of this.

My own life, for example, is hysterical.  At first glance it may seem mundane, or even a little (OK, a lot) depressing.  But dig a little deeper,  shift the perspective and it becomes funny.

I actually considered writing a memoir, but was deterred by an underdeveloped ego, and the fact that I would alienate my family, lose my job and make my few friends (few by choice, thank you) hate me.

Ironic that those very people I am trying not to piss off are the same ones who urge me to write it all down.  But I’m pretty sure they don’t really want to look into that mirror.  And there’s no way to change names or places and make things unidentifiable.  So much of the funny comes from the reputations (international) of the people involved, the names themselves contribute (truth is funnier than fiction) and I’m not clear about that whole “Accomplice/Accessory” thing – that could get sticky for me.

So when they say, “Elsie, tell us a story,” I do, and they laugh and then say “You really need to put all this in a book.”   But they don’t want me to do that.  Not really.  I maintain a carefully constructed Venn Diagram-esque relationship between story and audience.  And no one REALLY wants me to take down those walls.

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