Demonstrating that 2009 desperately wanted to come in with a bang and show me how awesome it’s going to be to live out the next 358 days, I have been smacked down with a cold in the first week of the New Year. I’m pretty pissed about this, and not just because it involves the inevitable debate between “suffer at work, thereby saving vacation days for something more fun than blowing the entire Amazon River and its fauna out my nose,” and “throb on the couch at home, blowing the entire Amazon River and its fauna out my nose, watching TV and wondering when TLC and HGTV will partner so that those fashionistas on ‘What Not To Wear’ can work their spangly magic on Suzanne Whang and Karen McAloon, who have not been told that no one wants their house decorated by someone wearing hammer pants or aloha prints.”
I’m pissed about this because I get every single cold that comes my way, where by “comes my way” I mean “is smeared on me by the secretary who deploys a mass offensive against humanity in the bathroom, doesn’t wash her hands, and then pretends nothing happened.” I can’t protect myself from having the rhinovirus practically air-gunned into my nostrils, but I feel like I do an above-par job of making sure my inner army is trained and ready to fend off invaders. Or at least making sure they’re not drunk all the time. I eat lots of fruits and vegetables (case in point: the pineapple incident), I choke down a multivitamin that tastes like Flipper's groin, and when I don't come home feeling like the workday sat on my head and farted, I manage to clock in some exercise.
My fruits and vegetables are many and varied, and sometimes I even wash them. I try to make them organic, except organic produce consistently and violently angers me. Here's why. When words are put in front of product names at grocery stores, it's all for one reason: To say "I am more tasty!" Fresh spinach. Crisp pickles. Hot bread. Get my drift? They are eager little children of adjectives screaming PICK ME I TASTE NICER!!! So when I see ORGANIC splashed across displays of arugula and apples, smugly crowning a price tag rivaled only by the GDP, I assume "organic" means "tastier," dig a little deeper, and cough up a lung to pay for the organic goodness.
Then I get home, and instead of tasting like rainbows and sunshine like I had assumed it would, the organic produce tastes like mediocre supermarket disappointment. And I want my lung back.
So I do what I can to keep myself healthy, and Mucus, Fatigue, and Achey still come to visit. Mid-way through a conversation with one of my bosses today, she realized how sick I was, and said, "Oh God, everyone's a petri dish right now." I almostalmostalmost replied, "And I made tender love to your keyboard before you got in this morning," but I didn't, of course, because I have no balls and also I like having health insurance.
I’m pissed about this because I get every single cold that comes my way, where by “comes my way” I mean “is smeared on me by the secretary who deploys a mass offensive against humanity in the bathroom, doesn’t wash her hands, and then pretends nothing happened.” I can’t protect myself from having the rhinovirus practically air-gunned into my nostrils, but I feel like I do an above-par job of making sure my inner army is trained and ready to fend off invaders. Or at least making sure they’re not drunk all the time. I eat lots of fruits and vegetables (case in point: the pineapple incident), I choke down a multivitamin that tastes like Flipper's groin, and when I don't come home feeling like the workday sat on my head and farted, I manage to clock in some exercise.
My fruits and vegetables are many and varied, and sometimes I even wash them. I try to make them organic, except organic produce consistently and violently angers me. Here's why. When words are put in front of product names at grocery stores, it's all for one reason: To say "I am more tasty!" Fresh spinach. Crisp pickles. Hot bread. Get my drift? They are eager little children of adjectives screaming PICK ME I TASTE NICER!!! So when I see ORGANIC splashed across displays of arugula and apples, smugly crowning a price tag rivaled only by the GDP, I assume "organic" means "tastier," dig a little deeper, and cough up a lung to pay for the organic goodness.
Then I get home, and instead of tasting like rainbows and sunshine like I had assumed it would, the organic produce tastes like mediocre supermarket disappointment. And I want my lung back.
So I do what I can to keep myself healthy, and Mucus, Fatigue, and Achey still come to visit. Mid-way through a conversation with one of my bosses today, she realized how sick I was, and said, "Oh God, everyone's a petri dish right now." I almostalmostalmost replied, "And I made tender love to your keyboard before you got in this morning," but I didn't, of course, because I have no balls and also I like having health insurance.
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