Our first indication there was a problem came Sunday afternoon, when I woke up from my pre-shift nap just as Mrs. Crappy was coming home from a trip to a nearby garden center.
Neither of us was feeling too swift.
Actually, the first thing I noticed was the fact that I lost my voice Friday night after the Wilco show; I was pretty, uh, enthusiastic during the concert, and simply thought the sudden baritone was a result.
Nope. By Sunday night, both Mrs. Crappy and I knew that we had some kind of fun chest infection. I wish I had a recording of the phone conversation; I sound a little like Barry White when I get these things, and Mrs. Crappy sounded like a 75-year-old lady cashing in her tokens at an Atlantic City casino after killing three packs of smokes.
I got home from work around 12:30 Monday morning, and sat down with a glass of whiskey — my favorite cold remedy — and, later, a mug of tea. That did the trick; the coughing slowed, and I was relaxed enough that I felt like I’d go right to sleep.
I went upstairs to get ready for bed … and that’s when our temperamental old commode decided it was going to flood the bathroom. Starting at 1:45 a.m., me and my fever mopped the floor three times — bleach, soap, rinse, with each cycle involving a trip to the basement and back — and then waited until the floor dried so I could shower before I went to sleep. Which finally happened just shy of 3 a.m.
Yeah, I didn’t go to work today. I’m feeling a little bit better — Mrs. Crappy is definitely not — so we’ll see how things go tomorrow. But if I have to scrub the floor again tonight, all bets are off.