Whoever said your gallbladder didn’t do anything important was a liar.

Not only does it keep you from instantly shitting yourself the second you ingest anything fried, fatty or spicy, but, I have come to the conclusion that it is also in charge of your immune system.

As in, I am four seconds from living in John Travolta’s plastic bubble, if only for my extreme fear of Scientology and being jumped over by horses.

I have been continuously sick from the second they yanked that thing out from my belly button hole.

Sinus infection after sinus infection.

It’s like I am that sickly old lady you always see in line at the pharmacy, pulling kleenex out of my sleeve and checking to see what color the snot was.

Also, if I offer you something from my purse, don’t take it, it’s probably riddled with bodily fluid.

Saturday I woke up at 3am with a stomach bug.  Which is convenient after a night of The Social Network and two extra large pizzas and beer with friends.

I was hot and cold, hot and cold. My hair hurt for the mere reason it was attached to my head.  My skin ached.

Andy slept on the couch because he woke up three times with flashbacks of my water breaking when he’d wake up soaked to find my fever broke.  Plus, he told me he couldn’t risk getting sick, which makes sense because, clearly, I am the only expendable one in this household.

Well, guess what, people, the second I go under, nobody eats, toilet paper rolls don’t get changed, laundry piles up, arson, human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together… mass hysteria!

So, according to the animal coded terror level system we use, this would be a terror level GODZILLA, which is a step below the monster from Cloverfield, but a level above the lion that attacked Roy Horn, so yeah….pretty fucking serious.

I spent the day in bed, watching 4 Weddings on TLC, running to the bathroom every so often to puke my guts outs.  Lather, rinse, repeat.

I am pretty well versed in pre-vomit warning signs.

Watery mouth.  Food rising in my throat.  Jaw tightening.

But, those signs are moot if they happen when you’re sleeping.

I woke up just in time, I sprinted for the bathroom, but I didn’t make it.  The second I crossed the threshold I threw up and instinctively screamed for Andy.

Not that he would be much help, he throws up in disposable tupperware bowls, and when a kid or animal vomits, he lays a towel over it until the hurl fairy comes to clean it up and leave him a dollar.

I lunged for the toilet, which of course, Jude didn’t flush, but in that moment I didn’t care.  Floater or not, I gripped the edges of the damp seat and just strained to throw up every drop of anything, ANYTHING, left inside my stomach.

As I stopped to take a breath, Andy comes around the corner, way too fast (in my opinion), and as he tears in the bathroom, to find the cause of my murderous screams, he slips on the puke and falls sideways on the floor.

Ok, this is where I admit, it was like, 70% puke/30% pee.

I have three kids and am an avid horseback rider, I make no excuses for my weak urethra.

Anyways, he is in so much pain, he doesn’t even have time to be grossed out yet, which is good, because I was totally grossed out.

I mean, I barely wanted to touch him to help him up, and that stuff came out of me.

For 20 minutes, he was convinced he broke his hip.  Which makes sense because in case you haven’t heard, OMG WE’RE ALMOST THIRTY.

He laid in bed next to me, just moaning and moaning, until I finally sent him to the urgent care, because it’s super hard to wallow in my own self pity and internal monologue with him whining and trying to steal my thunder.

He came home all bruised and with pain medication for the muscle strain.

You could have warned me there was puke all over the floor.

Well jeez, Andy, I guess I was too busy throwing up and peein’ myself.

Did you get it all cleaned up then?

I was just going to wait for the fairy to do it.

Facebook Comments