My weekend started out pretty normally. Went to our friends' house for fondue and Zombies (a role playing type game). The guys played while Cheryl knitted and Robin and I talked about anything and everything. I love this girl. I enjoyed one glass of White Merlot and a half glass of Karl's uber-expensive, but very good, Gerwurtztraminer (really really sweet white wine).
Saturday morning, I woke up nauseous. And then it got worse. Soon, I was spewing out of both ends (which I'm so sure you wanted to hear about). That's when it occurred to me. My boss' son made me sick. She had to bring him in for a little bit on Thursday while she got some work done. I played with him for like 5 minutes then ran off to my meeting. That five minutes must have been enough for the little petri dish to pass his germs on to me. Great.
My entire menu for yesterday (and today so far) has been Saltines and Gatorade. It seems that is all my body will keep down. The anti-nausea pill I took yesterday didn't even stay down. Stupid anti-nausea meds that don't work. D'OH!
Onto to the poor pizza guy. Late this morning, Ben decided that he wanted pizza to eat while football is on. Cool. I have no interest in pizza, but sure. He orders it then makes a quick run to Target to pick up a couple of things before football starts. Luckily, Ben thought to leave me money in case the pizza showed before he did. The doorbell rings. I stand up from the love seat, straighten my robe, check my visage in the mirror. I look like a really, truly sick person. Great, oh well, the pizza person will just have to deal. I open the door, and I'm sure that's he's expecting someone with clothes on. I mean, it is 1 p.m. on a Sunday. Nope. A zombie looking late 20's slob opens the door. Talk about deer-in-the-headlights look. So I give him the money, he gives me the change and the pizza. And Ben STILL isn't home yet.