Sean McIntosh of the New Fairfield McIntoshes turned 30 this weekend, and there was much rejoicing. Apparently, anyway, since I remember very little of it. We ended up at Boston Billiards, and I watched our crew of about a dozen people degenerate into a drunken mass of flesh over the course of the evening. When I last left them, they were on their way over to the diner. My wife was merciful and drove me home.

The next morning, I felt like death. I think I had a bit of alcohol poisoning: I was running a small fever, my stomach was killing me, and I was incredibly lethargic. This wasn’t good, of course, since we had to continue our tireless work on the house; right now, we’re ripping down the ceilings upstairs and replacing them, a job that’s less fun than it sounds.

I still felt sick this morning, so I’m staying home. My wife did, as well, but we’ve been realizing that it’s sometimes more stressful to stay home than it is to actually go into work, an irony that confounds me every single time.

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