Failure of the Day: Poison

Remember Friday morning? Those were the days, eh? The whole weekend looming before you like an expanse of pure pleasure, the promise of sleeping in, of catching up on the DVR backlog, of eating solid food…

On the plus side, I’ve lost two and a half pounds since Friday morning. On the minus side, I can’t even think the word “chicken.”

There was what we call an all-day “marketing all-hands” meeting on Friday. It was probably very interesting and informative for people whose job it is to do things like “craft messaging” and “differentiate by pain points,” but since my job is about telling people that the first word in a sentence needs to capitalized, it was long, long day. Oh, but they gave us breakfast and lunch!

It was an innocent-enough looking chicken breast in ginger sauce over steamed rice. Inviting, even. But that little chicken was the devil. I’d never had food poisoning before, so all I can say is: I had no idea. I was terrifically ill all Friday night, still dehydrated and sore and exhausted on Saturday, and I didn’t eat a thing until late Saturday night when I braved a slice of bread. Today I’ve managed a cereal bar and a diet coke, and I’m optimistic about there being a sandwich in my not-too-distant future. But oh me, oh my, some weekend.