puppy today. I’m not sure if it was the chicken cookie blog or the flu but I had a rough night. To make matters worse I had cooked a huge pot of homemade beef stew. It simmered in the crock-pot all day and I sampled it frequently to make sure it was perfect. It was good going down but gave a new meaning to the term “blowing chunks.” There is nothing quite like getting a potato stuck in your throat while you are throwing up.
And to make matters worse I am not a good sick
person. I can’t just go into the bathroom and vomit like a normal person to get it over with. No way, I try really hard to keep everything down as I can’t stand
that feeling of not being in control of my own body. I
also have to be in position with my butt firmly planted on the toilet and hugging a small trash can as when I get sick I tend to have liquids spewing out of every orifice of my body.
But whoever designed our house didn’t do a very good job. Toilet’s should be located close to a wall so when you are sick you can just lean against the wall and go to sleep. There is no sense in going back to bed because you will just be up again anyway.
My husband was very concerned as he heard the awful sounds coming from the bathroom and he asked if there was anything he could do for me. Wiping a carrot off of my chin I told him to bring me a gun so I could put myself out of my misery. Instead he brought me an ice pack for my head. My husband is a great guy who would do anything for me and I love him dearly but sometimes he doesn’t think things through.
The ice pack he handed me was one of those long,
flat, gel packs that you use in a lunch box or cooler. He had neatly wrapped it in a rag, the type I use for cleaning my kitchen. So there I sat on the toilet
holding what felt like a frozen license plate wrapped in burlap to my forehead. Would a baggie full of ice-cubes wrapped in a soft dish towel have been too much to ask for? At least it would have conformed to my head and been soft to the touch. I could have even taken a cube out of the bag and rubbed it on my lips. As I sat there all I could think about was having a decent ice pack for my throbbing head.
A few minutes later he offered to get me a pan to puke in so I could come to bed. I envisioned lying in bed and trying to hit the pan which would be at least two feet below on the floor and then shitting all over the bed and my husband at the same time. “No thank you” I answered back.
Eventually I feel asleep on the bathroom floor and then woke up and went to bed where my husband was snoring contently. I guess he was really worried about me. In the morning I didn’t feel like putting
on makeup or doing my hair so I just put on sweats and a white, knit hat when we left the house. The kids were being good as gold because they knew I wasn’t
feeling well but I could hear them quietly giggling about something in the car. Finally they fessed up that I looked like a giant Smurf with my hat on!
What does this have to do with writing you ask? Not a dam thing. It’s just a day in the life of a writer. Some days you write chunks and some days you blow chunks.
Have a good day passengers, at the next stop I’m going to hose this bus down with Lysol because I don’t want any of you to get sick.