January 11, 2001
It's All In My Head


The little Bricklayer Guys were here in the middle of the night again.

They trundled their tiny wheelbarrows back and forth inside my head all night long, while I was sleeping ... spending most of the hours between midnight and dawn busily trowelling mortar and packing rows of bricks into a solid wall, all along my sinus cavities.

("No *oxygen molecules* will get through these nasal passages! No sirree!")

While they were at it, they brought along their pals, the little Jackhammer Guys,  to make sure that I woke up not only totally unable to draw a breath ... but with a splitting headache, to boot.

Thanks, guys. Good job.

I crawled off my sickbed at 8 a.m. and left a wheezing, pathetic voicemail message for the Human Resources Director Person. Usually when I call in sick at work I try to get a live person on the line. It seems more professional, for one thing ... plus you can't accurately gauge the *sympathy levels* on the other end of the line unless you're actually speaking to a human being. ("Whew: it sounds like she believes me.")  But this morning I was in no mood to fudk around. When the HRDP's machine picked up, I didn't bother having her paged. I simply left my message, saying that I was feeling "miserable" and that I wouldn't be in today ...  but that I would make "every effort" to come in tomorrow and help unpack Franz' office stuff ... and would she mind passing along the message to Franz, because I doubted that he'd have a chance to check his voicemail this morning? Of course I was careful to add a couple of desperate, gasping sniffles at appropriate intervals during the message. I was equally careful not to leave my home phone number.

And then I slammed the phone down, turned off the ringer (just in case) and went back to bed.

I'm sure that Franz probably cursed me up one side of I-80 and back down again, when he found out I wasn't going to be in today ... his first day back from Washington D.C. I'm sure he blew a royal fuse when he saw all those unpacked moving boxes, piled in his new office. ("Whut the hell does 'Atlantic Ocean' mean?")  I'm sure that he's probably called several huddled, furious consultations with key staff members to discuss my "bad attitude" and my "lack of cooperation." I'm sure that if I were to pick up the phone and check my voicemail right now -- an absolutely insane impulse that I am struggling against, this afternoon -- that I would find my message box filled with crisis and vitriol. I'm sure that I'm going to have holy hell to pay tomorrow.

I'm especially sure that I don't give nine-tenths of a shidt.

All I want right now is to draw one long, clean, unfettered breath past the little brick wall in my face .. and to sleep some more ... and to let tomorrow take care of itself. And that is precisely what I'm going to attempt to do.

two years ago: soda vs. pop

throw a rock