Cooking fever. Or cooking through fever.

I missed work again Friday. I missed on Thursday because my throat had clogged up for some reason, and I sounded like Bea Arthur. Since much of my job involves me talking on the phone, when I actually get around to doing my job, I don't like sounding like Bea Arthur with a hacking cough when I call people.

I'm scared that I missed work. I'm scared that it will affect my numbers this month. I'm scared that, not just because I was sick but because I was somehow lax at work when I was well, that I'll be booted out the door of my company. Of course, I've been sick there before. And I've missed work because of it before. But things nowadays feel, I don't know, tenser and more urgent. Like any week could be my last. Because I should leave that job. Because I don't care about it. Because the bosses know that, though I can do it, I don't care about it, and that makes me a bad employee to have around.

So Thursday, when I missed work, I called them over and over offering penance and assistance.

My boss told me that horrible coughing wasn't necessary and all I needed to do was rest and get better.

I kept calling them anyway, for I felt like my ass was on the line. And because I felt like they needed me. And because I knew that I was really sick and that I didn't need to be at work, even though I felt like I wanted to work.

A supervisor told me to call my doctor. I did, and my doctor was unavailable. The nurse said she'd try to find a way for me to see him.

It was an odd feeling, being sick and wanting to go to my office anyway.

I couldn't stop panicking about work, in between coughing and in between squawking Bea's solos from "Mame," so I took some Nyquil. It was 11 a.m.

Four hours later, I woke up when a call from Lupo came in, and I found out that I'd missed a call from my doctor's office because of the Nyquil.

So I called the nurse back. Then I dozed off again.

Another four hours later, I woke up, wondered where the hell the day had gone and tested my voice to see if I was sick.

I'd gone from Bea Arthur to, like, Barry White. And it was not smooth. And it was not pretty.

So I watched some "Gilmore Girls," and I read some of "Empire Falls," a book I'm actually getting into.

Then I called work at 11 p.m., gave my supervisor's voicemail an update, took some Nyquil and surprisingly went back to sleep.

At around 6:45 on Friday morning, I woke up, tested my forehead, tested my voice, cleared my throat again, coughed again and realized that I was still sick.

So I called my supervisor, gave him another update saying that I wouldn't make it in, then I slept until about 10 a.m.

Then I called the nurse again to see if I could see my doctor today. Again, he was too busy to see me. So the nurse told me to overdose on liquids, Tylenol and vitamin C, which I actually own already, and call them if I didn't feel better by Monday.

I still felt a little sick, lightheaded and woozy with the occasional cough. People on the phone and online would ask me if I had a fever. I told them I didn't own a thermometer.

But I had to go out to deposit my paycheck. And maybe buy a thermometer.

And I realized that I couldn't feel guilty about missing work anymore. There was nothing to be done about it. I was sick. That was that.

Then I noticed that my illness had afforded me an opportunity to either clean my horrible, atrocious apartment and its bathroom. Or I could cook.

So I went to my Better Homes and Gardens cookbook, gathered up a recipe for slow-cooked pot roast and a recipe for a quick beef stroganoff, and I headed to the store when my soaps ended.

(And, incidentally, I left when Kurt stopped talking to me on AOL about whether he should get a sex-change operation. I voted no on the sex-change because it's a waste for someone that pretty to be a girl.)

The pot roast is in my birthday-gift slow cooker now. It'll be done sometime tomorrow, though I'm afraid to go to sleep with a cooking appliance on, even though I know that's kinda the point of a slow-cooker.

Ooh, earlier tonight, I called my dad's house, and, even though he answered the phone, I immediately asked for my stepmother.

"Benj???," my dad asked me, confused after I asked for Cindy.

"I'm making the pot roast," I said. "I need her advice."

She told me that I'd pretty much done everything I was supposed to, though she said she opted for marinade over the merlot-and-Worcestshire-sauce combo I put into it. And she told me to buy some Cream of Mushroom soup and add it to the concoction, for it will make a good gravy.

I think I still have a fever. The leftovers from the stroganoff are in the fridge. It's 2 a.m., and I just put the Edy's Cookies and Cream carton back into the freezer. I'm watching the episode of "Gilmore Girls" where Lorelai and Max make out on his desk during Chilton Parents' Day.

The roast has actually been cooking for several hours now. It will probably be done around 8 in the morning. I'm thinking of taking it, as soon as it's around 11 a.m. or so, to Larry's condo because I can't dare to eat all this by myself. And it smells WAY too good not to share, if I do say so myself.

Besides, I'm feeling a little less sick, though I'm still doing the liquids and the vitamin C and may call in to the store tomorrow to tell them I don't want to push it.

This whole massive cooking thing has been a lunatic move that must've been brought about by fever. There's no way I would've done any of this cooking if I'd thought rationally about it.