Plosh earned his nickname this week. Talk about rotten timing.
He's planned for this big, whoop-de-doo conference all year. He fretted and daydreamed and PowerPointed. IT geeks from newspapers all over the country showed up Monday evening. They were slated to have their big banquet last night (Tuesday) at a fancy-pants steakhouse in Los Angeles. This was his chance to network and shmooze his way out of a lousy job at the LA Times, where he fetches water, er, fixes software problems for reporters and editors.
So guess which week Minitaur brings home Virus #87 of the year. And guess which nights he wakes up howling every two hours while kicking his father in the ribs. If you guessed "this week" -- you win!
Yesterday, I was shocked to see my bedraggled, sick and depressed hubby standing in our doorway at 4 p.m. He'd been battling nausea and fever all day and struggling to stay awake, the poor dear. He bailed midway through the conference's first day and skipped the banquet.
Worse, the one panel he did attend was all weasely LA Times journalists bashing his hard work to the entire industry without giving him an opportunity to defend himself. And he says much of what they dissed simply wasn't true. Why not just emasculate him and get it over with? Forget the Liberal Media, how about the Technically incompetent, it's-never-my-fault-whiny-bastards Media?
So he came home to lick his wounds, stick a thermometer in his mouth and watch the American Idol finale with me. He slept in the spare bedroom to make sure he didn't get kicked to death, and this morning was out the door before 7 a.m. to trudge back to the conference.
And he doesn't even get a lousy steak out of the deal.
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