Mar 212007
 

I’ve been recovering from some vile pox inflicted upon me by my team leader, whose lung-dislodging hacking caused several rounds of prairie-dogging across the cube farm on Friday afternoon. Based on the fact that four other coworkers have been absent the last two days with the same symptoms, we’ll let the blame fall squarely on his shoulders, and completely disregard the 45 minutes spent in line outside Kennedy’s Irish Pub on St. Patty’s Day. In a cold and vicious wind. And in a kilt, dontcha know.

On one of several upsides, though, our friend Scott at long last proposed to his girlfriend Pam after fifteen years of couplehood. On bended knee in front of the entire packed bar. And in a kilt, dontcha know! (alright, I’m done.)

I was also blatantly hit on by not one! Not two! But three drunken straight girls over the course of three hours! That’s got to be some kind of personal best. The first one, Michelle, who was about eight sheets to the wind at 4pm, boldly beckoned me to the table next door. She snapped her fingers at me.

“Name?”

“Ryan. Yours?”

“Michelle. So…are you here with anyone? Wife? Girlfriend?”

I decided to end this bout in one round. “My husband.”

If her face had fallen any farther, the barmaid would have stepped on it.

“You’re gay.”

“Yup!”

“Damn! No, I mean, I’m totally ok with that. I mean, my brother’s gay. Let me introduce you!”

She made a quick intro to said brother, who happened to be standing three feet away. It was pretty clear he would have preferred to be somewhere else, but he was making the best of it by drinking heavily. I was quickly rescued by Pam, who dragged me back to our table.

The second accoster was imperiously waved away because she was between me and Pam, who’d just been proposed to and was about to receive a bearhug. Sorry, lady. Wrong time, wrong place. Next!

The third one stopped me as I weaved my way somewhat unsteadily back from the bathroom. She was pretty hot and, if I’d been straight and single, would have been all about her. She laid a hand lightly on my arm.

“Excuse me, but you look really good.”

“Thanks! So do you!”, said I, and continued on my drunken way.

A fine time was had by all, but I paid for it the next day, as the plague took hold of me. A general sense of ickiness eventually escalated to a 101 degree fever and wracking cough, suspiciously similar to the one my team leader didn’t have the good sense to keep to himself on Friday. Bastard.

So I’ve spent the last three days swilling an alchemist’s brew of various chemicals and sleeping a lot at odd hours. I dragged myself to work this morning for all of two hours before packing it in and working the rest of the day from home. I’m still just sick enough that I can’t really do anything, but well enough to be bored by the inactivity.

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