Yesterday, I stayed home from work with a baby migraine, which wasn’t so bad, as it seemed to dissipate once I laid on the steady stream of Canadian imported Tylenol 3 (love that Mare! Love her!). I spent most of the day wandering around the house wearing a baggy red t-shirt, a pair of white shorts that are way too big and fall down to my knees, and my Birks, looking for all the world like a career camp counselor who went AWOL after her three hundredth camper started mainlining purple bug juice. I found that I could function more or less as long as I wore sunglasses outside (it was overcast, making outside+migraine even a remote possibility) and didn’t bend over, which makes all of the pain run to the top of my head and threaten to blow the top of my skull off. But, on the upside, I could listen to music on the iPod (Blink 182’s ‘I miss you’ and Britney Spears’ ‘Everytime&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- what? Shut up!) that wasn’t too cymbally or hardcore (or, inexplicably, Dave Matthews’ the saxophone and violin volleys for my cerebral cortex, overhand serving the hypothalamus and spiking my parietal lobe with exuberance). I planned on picking up some of the crap in my dining room (renamed ‘The Messy Room’ by my darling niece’ and I can’t really blame her) but I ended up reading a million catalogs and watching ‘Mary Reilly’ on the Tivo because for some reason the cable wasn’t working in the bedroom. Esteban theorized that perhaps the Tivo was broken and we needed a new one, as he has been gunning for Ricky Fitts ever since he started thinking about his wee little hard drive and how he’d like to have about 80 times more storage and tap a million other things, leaving me to exclaim ‘Ricky Fitts does not fail us! We fail Ricky Fitts.’ And then he wondered if perhaps I had had a stroke rather than a migraine and also perhaps I should not drive anywhere that day. Which was fine, since it meant risking parted clouds and shiny searing pain inside my head because the game point is a do over due to an illegal set.
After much messing around with our under endowed Tivo, including a death defying restart, it turned out that the problem involved the forty-two feet of cable that Esteban has strung around our bedroom, including one artful installation involving the door frame and two giant construction nails. Martha Stewart, shield your eyes, sweetie. Apparently, this configuration, which has served us for something like seven years, was stressing the cable and one end pulled out of a connector. Thus, he cobbled something together, waved his techie wand over the whole thing, and suddenly I had Food Network and Alton Brown’s sexy geeky mug looking down on me, chastising me for allowing sugar crystals to form in my simple syrup.
Is it wrong that I sort of enjoy being chastised by Alton Brown? No. It couldn’t be.
Does anyone know John Grisham or his publicist? Please tell the comments section or send me an email!
I had more, but instead, pictures.
