Was it the fish?

Maybe it was the fish.

I am seriously thinking of calling in sick to work this morning. It would seem that while I was asleep last night, a drunken weasel crawled down my throat and decided to pass out in my lower tract. This morning it is making a spirited attempt to claw it's way out. I think it brought some rusty garden tools with it.

I am currently lying here in bed with my laptop trying to figure out what I ate yesterday. I keep coming back to the fish.

It is the time of year when the school starts shoveling free food into the support staff as a way of saying thank you for not actually killing any of the faculty or student body, in spite of all of the justifiable provocations.

Yesterday the head of our department took us out to a restaurant. I will refrain from naming it, in case they are not the culprit. It actually was a very nice meal. We had 3 choices and since I am trying to lose some of the excess ganome, I actually showed considerable restraint. I did not eat any bread, or mashed potatoes or any carbs at all to be honest. I had green vegetables, unsweetened iced tea and I ordered fish. The fish didn't taste funny. If anything is was disappointingly bland. The only thing I really noticed after the meal was that I probably ate too much since I was in one of those post big meal stupors for the rest of the afternoon.

I always suspect that it was fish whenever I get some sort of stomach upset that involves cramps. Even when no marine life has been a part of my diet. I think it goes back to a particularly memorable occasion when I was working in a rather fancy restaurant.

We had a new sous chef. The head chef had told him to throw out a container of bluefish that was seeming a bit vintage and to use another container to make the employee meal. Needless to say, he got the containers mixed up, with as they say, hilarious results.

There is no sight more frantic and amusing than an entire wait staff that is in the throws of food poisoning trying to wait on customers and make it to the restrooms in time to get rid of the offending meal. I think it could also adversely affect business when there is a concert of hurling coming from said rest rooms during the dinner service.

I might be making this up, but I do seem to remember at one point sitting in a stall with the burning squirts while my head was in a bucket. Proving you can have it all.

That might be the problem with this morning. I am not getting a lot of action, which usually relieves the problem. If I were too busy at this moment with my ass hovering over the commode while I was leaning over the sink to be writing this, I would know that I was at least getting it out of my system in all the senses of that expression.

Instead I am propped up in bed, trying not to move too much and feeling like I am reenacting the dinner scene out of "Alien".

I would like to go back to sleep, however that is out of the question, sleep involves breathing, which seems to be its own little comfort challenge and I have figured out after a couple of exploratory expeditions to the john that this isn't something I am going to be able to walk off.

I guess my only hopes are either a swift and merciful death, or reliance on the old adage, "This too shall pass."

I'll let you know how it all comes out in the end.