Ever have the type of stomach virus that renders every poor schmuck that comes to your door a potential caretaker?
“I just threw up so hard toilet water splashed up and hit my face and I pooped in my shorts, what should I do?” I asked, holding a towel to my cheek.
“About which thing?” The horrified gas meter reader asked me.
My kids spent last week battling a cough and fever, and I spent the weekend feeling very smug about having avoided it myself. Until Monday morning at 12am when I stumbled out of bed, my stomach hard and contracting, and began what would be a 28 hour marathon of vomiting with a towel bunched between my legs.
In case you are wondering, it was mostly Fat Tire and the five slices of Mexican pizza I’d eaten that night. Two things I will never, ever, ingest again.
Andy went in late Monday after dropping the kids at school, and I tried to be very strong about the whole thing, but eventually cried “uncle” and called my mama over for help. It’s not that I would have been afraid to point to the pile of wet towels and underwear and told Andy to wash them, or screamed for him to bring me a cold washcloth as I sat on the toilet holding a bucket up to my face, moms just do it so much better.
She brought me cold ginger ale with a bendy straw and I passed in and out of sleep listening to her buzz about my house spraying Lysol. I had no concept of time save for the fact that every time I woke up, a different part of The Best Man starring Taye Diggs was playing on BET. For the record, that movie is twenty hours long and as tedious as being stuck watching a friend’s wedding video when you just came over to return the dress you borrowed after spending forever scrubbing the Secret Clinical deodorant stains out of the pits.
Yesterday was better; I was done puking. Still shitting my brains out, but hey, I could eat. Let’s face it, diarrhea sucks, but that doesn’t stop me from shoving shit into my mouth. In fact, it encourages it because in my brain, I absorb less calories. This is the whole reason Chipotle is even in business.
So I migrated from my bedroom to the living room couch, set up camp with my down comforters and DVR fully stocked with John Oliver and Real Housewives of New Jersey, and let my mom make me egg noodles with butter and salt and tell me about her day. That afternoon, the Erin Condren life planner I ordered arrived and I was lost in a sea of stickers and colored pens and important dates. I had no idea being an adult could be so fun. This is the Lisa frank of adulthood, y’all.
Never in my life have I paid actual money to be organized, mostly because google calendars are free, but consider me a changed woman. Until I lose this planner or leave it in a gas station restroom somewhere, and then will go on to recreate the Charles Grodin role in the 1990 James Belushi classic, Taking Care of Business. Anyone?
Today is Wednesday and I’m standing upright and wearing an underwire bra. Consider me cured. I am coming out of this experience with two revelations.
1. I will never live my life without this planner and a full set of gel pens, again.
2. I’m inventing a toilet that has two bowls, so you never have to prioritize vomiting or pooping again.