The Plague

No, not a book by Albert Camus, this is merely a slight exaggeration about my recent case of the flu. I have the flu and some sort of secondary infection, so I am nauseated and unable to eat much, plus I’m continually coughing up a lung (and other, shall we say, less pink items). Needless to say, I haven’t been doing much — posting or otherwise.

In other news, we still haven’t found jobs for the near-term, and spending 3 weeks with my back out of commission closely followed by an epic case of the flu has me wondering if I shouldn’t just book a room in chateau de la infirmier and drool quietly between sheets for the rest of my life.

Nevertheless, we are still casting our net for jobs, I’m still worrying about the foreign service exam and Marti interviews for a place in Massachusetts this afternoon (I only recently learned the correct spelling — two ss’s, two tt’s — being a West Coast girl at heart). I know we should be rounding on this evil satellite company headquartered in beautiful Carlsbad, California with an accusatory finger and a resounding “no!” for taunting us with a position with them — across the country in extremely cold Massachussetts — but mostly we’re curious what they might offer and what carrots they might be hiding (such as the “we’ll move you to Carlsbad in a year” carrot, for example. All expenses paid.) Ah well, we’ll see, eh?

Meanwhile, I’m going to lie here and dream pleasant Nyquil dreams. Until next time…