Obama Doesn't Care That I'm Sick -- How Will He Save The World?

This is a pity post. If you cannot or will not pity me, feel sorry for me, or send me flowers, please do not read this post.

I am so sick I think I'm gonna die. My nose is stuffed up, even extra-strength, double duty Otrivin isn't doing the trick. My head is about to explode,

my eyes are burning somethin' fierce, and all I have energy for is typing this sentence and moaning softly.

Help. Me.

I am usually a good sickie, but today? Please. Don't even ask.

All day long at work, I sat there filing very important files, meanwhile making sure my left nostril did not drip snot all over the very important papers I was filing. I also sneezed a lot, but always into my sleeve, because that is the proper and sanitary thing to do. I must have used up the equivalent of three boxes of Kleenex, except they had no Kleenex at this office, so I ended up using really rough and cheap toilet paper and paper towel, which ended up making my usually very cute nose look and feel like this:

Now, I ask you, why would my left nostril be draining so consistently all day long? Not the right one. Just the left. What the hell.


Then...then it was time to leave, and I got stuck in traffic up to my hoo ha because Obama was in town. Yup. That's right. The entire Ottawa police force was busy blocking roads, watching traffic and generally looking really official because Obama apparently needs lots of security and they had to close down most major arteries in town, and right at rush hour, which meant that my usual 20-minute drive home took 1.5 hours. That's 90 minutes.


They wouldn't open the roads up again until Barack's plane lifted. Very official and serious security stuff.


So, everyone on the roads was getting all pissed off and stuff, but still acting pretty polite, because we're Canadians. No guns here. The worst we do is honk our horns loudly and sometimes more than once. And then we apologize. And we almost always say please and thank you.


Why they thought they needed the entire police force to protect Barack's butt is beyond me. Most of us don't even own guns, let alone know how to use them. And even if we did, we're too damn nice to. Nice. I hate that word.

We might, however, flog him with a Beavertail. Thank god for that bulletproof glass, eh.


So, I finally get home and I finally sit down and close my eyes, but I'm hungry, because I haven't eaten much today because I haven't been feeling well. It's Mr. Handsome's turn to cook dinner, but he isn't home yet, because he has taken "Dennis" to his swimming lesson because I was still on the damn roadway trying to get home. Taking Dennis to his lesson is usually my job. So, by the time Mr. Handsome got home and got dinner made, it was really really late, which made me a Mrs. Cranky Pants, so I started yelling at "Milly" because she wanted me to drive her to the grocery store to pick up some ingredients for her brother's birthday cake, and I accused her of not being very empathetic toward her very ill and dying mother, and did she realize she had another parent sitting right there across from her, doing absolutely nothing and feeling a helluva lot better than I am?????!!!


So, tomorrow should be interesting. I should stay in bed, but I will dutifully go to work, because I am a good little Worker Bee, and because I am sick and tired of "some" people who roll their eyes at me and sigh loudly whenever I proclaim that I'm not feeling very well. So, somehow, by going into work, I will be proving a point. Somehow. I'll tell you how when I figure it out.


Good night.

P.S. This "certain someone" just made me a hot tea after I told her, angrily, that she forgot to make me a tea. Now who feels like an idiot? Sorry, Milly.