solitary confinement

Thursday, October 24, 2013

You know the home confinement thing is getting to you when you start making up "Whoop, There It Is" jokes about whooping cough.

True story: If you listen closely, my wheezing resembles "shakalaka shakalaka."

Anyway, I am still waiting for my test results. (Side rant: Why the hell is it taking so long? What century are we in? Should I expect the verdict to arrive via telegraph -- antiquated illness requires equally antiquated delivery mode?!)

(Bonus side rant: Pretty sure I just heard one of the cats puke in the living room. Let's take a moment to bid a fond farewell to the 20 minutes of my life that will be required to get from the bedroom to the living room to clean that up. Because crutches suck. And crutches plus shitty, fluid-filled, wheezy-ass lungs are even worse. Shakalaka.)

So how exactly does one pass the time spent confined to one's house (other than listening to early '90s hip-hop, of course)?

Working. Because contrary to the test result people's beliefs, these are modern times and laptops exist. (Also, something really awesome and Washington wine-related is about to happen, so the work must go on.) My "office" is now my bed and my "coworkers" are two cats. (Dear coworkers: Quit puking and scratching up the new couch.) However, it is slightly horrible and embarrassing when I have to tell people I need to cancel all of my in-person meetings because I might have whooping cough and am basically a giant biohazard.

Watching all of the Netflix. Don't judge me for catching up on an entire season of "Vampire Diaries" all at once. Yes, I know "Breaking Bad" and "Downton Abbey" are probably more cerebral choices, but when you are surrounded only by cats all day, watching hours and hours of angsty, well-toned shirtless men is a nice break from reality.

Sleeping. Oh god, the sleep has been amazing. Well, except for right now, obviously. Grrr.

Reading. I'm reluctant to admit I recently started reading Eat Pray Love, which my mom gave me several years ago, and which I have totally resisted for a multitude of reasons until now. This is slightly painful to say, but the book is really not that bad (although the "pray" section is a bit excessive -- I'd rather read about pizza and pasta). And given my dumb relationship history and recent solo sojourn in Paris, I sort of relate to some of the things Gilbert writes about.

Making cat videos. Because duh.

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