Go, go Gadget Sphincter!
I’m still a little behind the curve right now, so I’ll be keeping this short while relying on the hilarity that is my own unfortunate life for your enjoyment. Also, the next 5 paragraphs are gross, so you may want to just count those off and skip to the end.
If you are now, or have ever been, the parent of a small child, you are familiar with the horror that is regurgitative illnesses. I haven’t had the flu in over a decade, I’m prone to a cold every 3-5 years or so, and up to now I’ve just been outright lucky. Until Monday. Somewhere around 5:00 in the evening on Sunday, I got a crushing headache. I figured it was the onset of don’t-wanna-go-back-to-work syndrome, or a case of “The Mondays” in the vernacular.
I wasn’t that lucky. I never am.
At around 3:00 am, I woke up with the feeling of overwhelming nausea and panic, and sprinted to the bathroom where I spent the next 3 minutes reenacting a vomitous cut scene worthy of Family Guy. But it didn’t end there, because as soon as my stomach was empty, everything south of the equator started to Rumba. Violently. Shortly thereafter, I had my first shower of the day and went back to bed. Dear husband slept through the whole thing.
Fast forward to 5:00 am where I hadn’t been sleeping so much as meditating on the merits of not repeating my previous nocturnal adventures. My stomach decided to speak up in protest, and back to the fun house I went. Cue 3-5 more minutes of violent dry heaving, only better. Because when you’re enjoying a dry heave this violent, your sphincter ceases to function. In case anyone needs it spelled out for them, I exploded. From both ends. Simultaneously. I debated setting the bathroom on fire right then and there, but opted instead to just rinse out the bath mat, shower again and make a mental note to reconsider my stance on adult diapers.
I walked out and started heading to the kitchen for some water when my husband rang out so helpfully, “You’re calling in sick to work, right?” Then he got up and went to work and I spent the next 5 hours emptying what must have been ghost matter from my body with one end seated firmly on the porcelain throne and the other end barking into the bathroom trash can while moaning “fuck my life” in between dry heaves. I’ve never wanted to die so badly as I did on Monday.
TL;DR for you squeamish types: I spent most of Monday with explosive gastrointestinal issues, manifesting in both hemispheres. I feel better today, having only the original headache which I’m attempting to drown in Gatorade and small doses of advil. Apparently, my husband feels that my recovery is cause for celebration by making constant fun of me by reenacting my 12 hours of misery in sound effects. I would like to celebrate by force feeding him an Ipecac cupcake with laxative frosting. I feel that this indignity cannot go unpunished. Queen Inappropriate agrees.
Me: I want to buy more craft organizers. Good idea, or grounds for divorce?
You know what? Doesn’t matter. Asshole made fun of me for being sick.
Queen Inappropriate: It’s absolutely grounds for divorce. Stop it right now.
Me: It’s not craft supplies, it’s things to organize my craft supplies. Also, he made fun of my diarrhea and makes fart noises at me. Or farts at me. This cannot go unanswered.
Queen Inappropriate: Fuck that bitch. CARRY ON!
Me: This? This is why I love you so damn much.
Queen Inappropriate: I know. We’re like the same person. I’m just rounder, less boobtastic, less mouthy, less loud, less obnoxious and somehow less generally awesome than you. It’s sort of like being in love with yourself.
I do love her. She’s like my cousin. Actually, that’s what we’ve been telling people for the past 9 months. Prove it ain’t so. And like any fun dysfunctional family, we spend a good deal of time poking fun at each other.
Me: So, do you want me to remind you about your anniversary this year? (It just popped up on my calendar.)
Queen Inappropriate: No, i just bought his gift. Gonna get him a few more things because one was something small.
Me: Want me to remind you the morning of? So you actually remember to give it to him?
Queen Inappropriate: Yes. At like, 5:00 am.
Me: Okie dokie. You won’t be able to read your messages without your glasses though, so we should make it 5:15. You know, because you’re blind? Bwahaha! I’m an asshole.
Queen Inappropriate: I sleep in my contacts, douchebag.
Me: I’m just a regular joe with a regular job.
I’m your average white suburbanite slob.
I like football and porno and books about war.
I’ve got an average house with a nice hardwood floor.
My wife and my job; my kids and my car.
My feet on the table and a cuban cigar…
And if you don’t know where this is going by now, I don’t think we can be friends anymore.
Happy Wednesday, people. We’re more than halfway through.