I've had just about as much Monday as I can stand this week
Well, the adrenalin is draining out of my system.
He Whom I Adore Inordinately is online this morning, which is good: I can check in on him, on his reaction to the muscle relaxant, on the interactions between said medication and antihistamines, etc. Then he decides to take a nap/lie down for a while. A pretty good idea, given his woogly state and his back.
He leaves the computer online.
We have only one phone line.
3:45pm. I come back from lunch, check messages, email, etc. The computer's still online, but he's not in AIM, nor findable anywhere else on line.
4:08pm. I give up on getting any more work done, leave an AIM message and one on the voicemail, and head home. I attempt to read, pointedly not thinking about the possibility of bad drug interactions, of a coughing fit causing further back spasms, of him sprawled unconscious -- or worse -- across the floor; I'm definitely not thinking about his tendency to put the deadbolt on the door (we don't have keys for the deadbolt, so it's only locked when we're inside). No, I'm not, I'm not, I'm not.
4:50pm. I'm home. A very abashed-looking woogly man is waiting for me. I don't scream. I don't punch walls. I say a few things, ending with, "Don't ever do that again," then I go retrieve the laundry.
Okay. I'm ready for a new day now, thank you.
He Whom I Adore Inordinately is online this morning, which is good: I can check in on him, on his reaction to the muscle relaxant, on the interactions between said medication and antihistamines, etc. Then he decides to take a nap/lie down for a while. A pretty good idea, given his woogly state and his back.
He leaves the computer online.
We have only one phone line.
3:45pm. I come back from lunch, check messages, email, etc. The computer's still online, but he's not in AIM, nor findable anywhere else on line.
4:08pm. I give up on getting any more work done, leave an AIM message and one on the voicemail, and head home. I attempt to read, pointedly not thinking about the possibility of bad drug interactions, of a coughing fit causing further back spasms, of him sprawled unconscious -- or worse -- across the floor; I'm definitely not thinking about his tendency to put the deadbolt on the door (we don't have keys for the deadbolt, so it's only locked when we're inside). No, I'm not, I'm not, I'm not.
4:50pm. I'm home. A very abashed-looking woogly man is waiting for me. I don't scream. I don't punch walls. I say a few things, ending with, "Don't ever do that again," then I go retrieve the laundry.
Okay. I'm ready for a new day now, thank you.