Sicky poo poo.

I've always known that my blog is insignificant and goes unread, but it just hit me that it is really insignificant. Kind of like those moments when you realize the coffee at Starbucks is mediocre and overpriced however you consistently return. Similarly, I will continue writing know there is better use of my time. . .like. . .organizing my sock drawer. . .?

Tomorrow is the Fourth. Big BBQ and boozin' day and I'll be stuck at my un-air conditioned job with a sore throat due to the stagnant air at my hopelessly vapid retail job. Yes the highly profitable chain retailer where I work has a broken air conditioner. Wah, poor Lindsay, right? If it were a day-long inconvenience I might not spend much energy babbling about the sweat dripping from every crevice my body with only a few fans to ease our heat exhaustion. However, it's been three weeks without and will probably be three more weeks before our air conditioner is installed and functioning. It's a crowded store, with high traffic and poor air flow. The affects are cranky customers, cranky workers and poor sales. In addition I've been fending off a cold and sty in my eye for about two weeks. I'm pointing my fingers at the heat and germs festering on every counter top. That and the redundant customer complaint that, "Gee, it's hot in here, can't you turn up the air conditioner?"

Hopefully people take hints from the industrial size fans in the store and my scowl, and spare my fun holiday from being completely ruined. Sick and hot and not at the beach watching fire works. Exactly what I want to be doing.

Being sick in Berkeley is tough. Actually being sick any distance from my mom makes recovery long winded. Moms have that magic touch. Gaging your body's temperature with just one gentle touch on the forehead, whipping up miracle soup that rids your body of every toxin within hours ignoring your urges to bottle and market the stuff for a lucrative cure-all, and ordering a thick coat of Vicks on your chest and throat draped with a hot towel. They're miracle workers.

Since my Pennsylvania medicine woman can't cure me when we're 3000 miles apart, I've resorted to Berkeley's homeopathic remedies. So far, so good. Rare teas and 8-syllable vitamins can't compare to my mom's curing powers, but it will have to do if I want to make it to work on tomorrow's holiday. Which I don't want to do, but I have to.