Stop Touching Your Face
This, the mantra I have been reciting since bossman walked into my office yesterday morning and a demon spoke from the depths of Hell, "how are you?"
Then I realized it wasn't a demon from the depths of Hell, it was bossman, and he sounded like shit. That's when fear seized my soul with a much tighter grip than any demon from Hell could muster--he's sick.
He's sick, and he's going to spend the duration of this illness coughing and breathing and spitting and spewing all over myriad shit that he will then put on my desk. He will hover over my open can of Diet Pepsi and breathe. He will blow his nose and then touch files he's about to hand to me without washing his hands first. Ugh, ugh, ugh.
But I will be proactive, I thought. I will engage in OCD-caliber hand washing. I will wash my hands before I smoke. I will wash my hands after handling anything that came from his office. I will wash my hands before even thinking about touching my face.
Ever notice how much you do something when you're specifically trying not to do it? I must touch my face in some fashion a good 6 million times a day. A stray hair in my eye. A nose itch. A lip crumb. 6 million times. Until I found myself staring at my hands in absolute horror and asking them "why are you doing this to me???"
New strategy--I will stock up now on NyQuil and DayQuil and Zicam and hope for the best while preparing for the worst. Dammit.
When I got home last night, Bob had returned to his lucid, Good Bob self from the Damian, Spawn of Satan he had been the rest of the day. He even wrote me a note: "Dear Mommy, I'm sorry I had a bad day. Love, (Bob)." And two depictions of his preschool teacher, representing today and tomorrow--one sad, the other happy. He assured me that today he was going to have a good day.
Just give that knife a good twist now that you've stuck it in, why don't you?
Now I'm facing the decision of putting Bob on Ritalin or Metadate or some other lower-dose stimulant to try to bring him around. I sent db an email today to the effect of I'm going to mention this at his appointment with the shrink's office next week. (I anticipate a shit storm in response, but was trying to appear "cooperative" and "in the spirit of working together.") I'm not happy about jumping on the ADHD bandwagon. I'm not even sure, given his reaction (or lack thereof, depending on how you look at it) to Adderall, that a stimulant is the answer. But shit, I've got to do something. The kid can't function like this--flying into a blind rage at the drop of a hat and then, just as quickly, returning to lucidity. The pattern doesn't say "ADHD" to me, but since no one knows what the hell is really going on, I guess there's no choice but to play Drug Roulette and hope the consequences don't outweigh the benefits.
At any rate, I talked to Bob's teacher this morning, and she confirmed Bob was, true to his word, having a stellar day today. She also added "I don't think we're supposed to (understand it)." She may have a point.
So this weekend will be my first Bob-free weekend since June. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with myself. Probably try to keep busy. I've got plenty to do--finish Xmas shopping, wrap the crap I've already bought, buy the appropriate chemicals and add water to my ever-dwindling fish tank, clean the house, do a major overhaul on Bob's bedroom including clothing and toy weeding (5 bucks says he won't even notice what's missing), and start going through shit in the basement that I've forgotten we have. Oh, and lots of Scrubs reruns. Yeah.
Then I realized it wasn't a demon from the depths of Hell, it was bossman, and he sounded like shit. That's when fear seized my soul with a much tighter grip than any demon from Hell could muster--he's sick.
He's sick, and he's going to spend the duration of this illness coughing and breathing and spitting and spewing all over myriad shit that he will then put on my desk. He will hover over my open can of Diet Pepsi and breathe. He will blow his nose and then touch files he's about to hand to me without washing his hands first. Ugh, ugh, ugh.
But I will be proactive, I thought. I will engage in OCD-caliber hand washing. I will wash my hands before I smoke. I will wash my hands after handling anything that came from his office. I will wash my hands before even thinking about touching my face.
Ever notice how much you do something when you're specifically trying not to do it? I must touch my face in some fashion a good 6 million times a day. A stray hair in my eye. A nose itch. A lip crumb. 6 million times. Until I found myself staring at my hands in absolute horror and asking them "why are you doing this to me???"
New strategy--I will stock up now on NyQuil and DayQuil and Zicam and hope for the best while preparing for the worst. Dammit.
When I got home last night, Bob had returned to his lucid, Good Bob self from the Damian, Spawn of Satan he had been the rest of the day. He even wrote me a note: "Dear Mommy, I'm sorry I had a bad day. Love, (Bob)." And two depictions of his preschool teacher, representing today and tomorrow--one sad, the other happy. He assured me that today he was going to have a good day.
Just give that knife a good twist now that you've stuck it in, why don't you?
Now I'm facing the decision of putting Bob on Ritalin or Metadate or some other lower-dose stimulant to try to bring him around. I sent db an email today to the effect of I'm going to mention this at his appointment with the shrink's office next week. (I anticipate a shit storm in response, but was trying to appear "cooperative" and "in the spirit of working together.") I'm not happy about jumping on the ADHD bandwagon. I'm not even sure, given his reaction (or lack thereof, depending on how you look at it) to Adderall, that a stimulant is the answer. But shit, I've got to do something. The kid can't function like this--flying into a blind rage at the drop of a hat and then, just as quickly, returning to lucidity. The pattern doesn't say "ADHD" to me, but since no one knows what the hell is really going on, I guess there's no choice but to play Drug Roulette and hope the consequences don't outweigh the benefits.
At any rate, I talked to Bob's teacher this morning, and she confirmed Bob was, true to his word, having a stellar day today. She also added "I don't think we're supposed to (understand it)." She may have a point.
So this weekend will be my first Bob-free weekend since June. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with myself. Probably try to keep busy. I've got plenty to do--finish Xmas shopping, wrap the crap I've already bought, buy the appropriate chemicals and add water to my ever-dwindling fish tank, clean the house, do a major overhaul on Bob's bedroom including clothing and toy weeding (5 bucks says he won't even notice what's missing), and start going through shit in the basement that I've forgotten we have. Oh, and lots of Scrubs reruns. Yeah.
posted by Mitzi Green at 2:49 PM
2 Comments:
OMG, the dreaded sick boss. I just hate when EPOD is sick, because not only is he sneezing/coughing everywhere, but he's one miserable bastard.
Oh wait, he's a miserable bastard ALL of the time. Never mind.
Anyhow, I read this article in the January issue of Fitness magazine that tells you the best ways to fight catching a cold. I'll take it to work, scan it, and e-mail it to you tomorrow. Meanwhile, I highly suggest a gas mask and a necklace of garlic cloves.
Get yourself a little pack of "saniwipes" or something similar...that way you don't have to stop to sterilize. When I'm working around a sicko, I keep a semi-fresh one in my pocket all the time. You can discreetly dab your fingers/hands after touching their yuck. Oh...and power load on the vitamin C.
Or...shoot your boss on the way to take the DB out.
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