Hubby + Hangover = Worthless to Me

So my husband is in the process of planning a Vegas bachelor party for his best friend this summer. And if history has taught me anything, it’s that I shouldn’t plan for him to be good for a damn thing the day after these testosterone-fueled festivities. You see, the last time he planned a little manhood soiree like this, he was more than just a little successful in earning his rightful place in the proverbial doghouse.

It was probably about ten years ago when my hubby was put in charge of planning a last hurrah for one of his soon to be married friends. We were living in a condo at the time and had just bought our first house, which needed MAJOR renovations. He assured me that he wasn’t gonna get too wild and crazy at the bachelor party since he knew that we needed to meet our contractor at the new house early the next morning. (Ok, people, you can stop your freaking snickering cause I actually bought into this shit and believed this ridiculously impossible promise!) When I woke up the next day to find him still passed out to the world, though, I knew that our day of productivity was going to be anything but.

Turns out that Mr. Promise To Take It Easy decided to get even more toasted than the actual bachelor himself. I mean, we’re talkin’ quite possibly the world’s WORST hangover on the record books. I was having none of it, though, since we had a schedule, and by God, we were sticking to it! I told him to buck up and pop some Advil cause we had appointments and were knockin’ out that to-do list whether he liked it or not. He cringed and moaned, but I threw his ass in the car, and we headed over to our new under-construction haven.

I was deep into a conversation with our contractor when I happened to notice that my hungover hubby had completely disappeared on me. I excused myself to hunt him down, only to find him bent over the disconnected toilet in the backyard puking his ever-loving guts out. I nearly died of embarrassment imagining what our new neighbors must think of the white trash couple who’d just moved into their hood. I was sure that we would most certainly NOT be receiving any welcome baskets full of muffins and cookies.

We decided to head to the Home Depot before we were completely blacklisted from the neighborhood, but the very minute we got to the cabinet section there, my renovating partner went MIA once again. Luckily, I didn’t have to wonder too long about his whereabouts though, since I immediately heard his obnoxiously distinct sounds of hurling coming from the vicinity of the restrooms. I honestly could have killed him right then and there and had visions of just what I’d like to do with the jigsaw I had passed back in Aisle 10. Needless to say, we didn’t get a whole lot accomplished that day.

So if history decides to repeat itself this year, my hubby better be good and ready to dig himself out of any holes in which he finds himself in Vegas. I will most certainly NOT be sweet-talking Mike Tyson if his pet tiger goes missing, nor will I be rescuing my sunburned husband from a deserted roof top. Nope, he’s all on his own. Most importantly, however, I will not be planning any major projects right after his little weekend boy bash. Instead, I will be planning MY OWN little Sin City girls gala cause turnabout’s fair play and payback’s a bitch. 

Unlucky Streak

     

     Sometimes I honestly think my life is an on-going audition for “Survivor”.  And last week would have undoubtedly sealed the deal for me to be a shoe-in cast member on that show.  It was as if someone was playing a cruel joke on me to see if I’d finally shatter into a billion tiny pieces.  Did I break a mirror I don’t know about or did a black cat run in front of me?  Cause clearly, bad luck is totally trying to get the best of me.  But, miracles DO happen, cause I’m still standing on two intact legs with two intact arms to hold my Advil and my Chardonnay.

     It was bad enough that the week started off with my son being ridiculously ill.  But then the damn dog had to give me yet another reason to campaign against getting a dog for a pet.  On Friday I took him to the vet for his pre-ball chopping bloodwork and happened to mention to the technician that his eyes looked red to me. Upon further investigation, she informed me that the jackass had pink eye — yes, pink eye!  Who the hell knew that a freaking dog could get pink eye?!  After struggling to keep him from jumping on the other dogs while she retrieved his $45 eyedrops, she told me that I’d have to put the drops into each eye twice a day for five days (because I don’t have anything else going on in my life but to try and pin down a fifty pound beast twice a day).  I left the office with a massive headache, a leash burn on my palm, and a strong desire to hitchhike down to Mexico.

**Did I mention that my husband had been out of town all friggin’ week??!!**

     But the fun didn’t end there.  Oh, no sir-ee Bob, it most certainly did not!  On Saturday night, I dropped my daughter off at a “sleep under” party at her friend’s house where they do all the fun things of a slumber party without the actual “slumber” part.  When I went to pick her up, I could instantly tell by the look on her face that something was terribly wrong.  She was pale as a ghost and covered with sweat and immediately started saying that she wanted to go home.  She began crying as she put on her coat, and my motherly instinct told me that puke was in my imminent future.  

     I talked her into going into the half bath as all the other moms were coming to retrieve their children, and the instant I shut the door, she hurled all over the place.  And the force of the hurl was so great that it caused her to pee her pants as well.  The poor kid was so humiliated to have this happen in the presence of her friends, so I was trying my very best to comfort her and tell her that this happens to the best of us.  I couldn’t help but notice, however, that my options for cleaning up this ginormous mess were limited to a half roll of toilet paper.  I. Was. Totally. Screwed. 

     I could hear all the hustle and bustle of moms and kids outside the door and didn’t want my daughter to be further embarrassed, so I casually poked my head out to look for the birthday girl’s mom.  I was able to quietly request some paper towels and any other cleaning supplies she might be able to provide without shining a massive spotlight on the unbelievable shit that had just gone down behind that door.  I scrubbed like a madwoman as fast as I could since my daughter desperately (and justifiably) just wanted to get the hell out of dodge.  I have no doubt that I probably left a splatter or two behind, but I did the best I could under the circumstances.

**By the way, you DO remember that my husband had been out of town ALL stinkin’ week, don’t you?** 

     So, if my thong is on backwards, my hair’s a dead ringer for Medusa, or I’m driving in the wrong lane, you’ll either sympathize with me or you can bite me.  It’s been yet another week from HELL, and my limit’s been reached.  I believe I’ve more than earned a trip to the spa as well as a sushi dinner, so listen up, hubby!  When you finally return, you better hike up your skirt and hop in the ring cause this bad luck’s goin’ down, baby.  

The Puke Invasion

    My house was invaded this weekend by an unexpected visitor.  Yes, the puke bug decided to spew its ugliness all over my poor son’s little body and literally knock him right off his feet.  And as a parent, one of the most gut-wrenching experiences is to have to watch your child suffer in pain and know that there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.  As miserable as he was, though, the little rockstar was still able to make his severely sleep-deprived mama smile more than once even though he was busy “driving the big white truck.”

     When I picked the little guy up from school on Friday, I immediately knew that something was up.  He was as pale as a ghost and laid his head right on me the moment he saw me.  He even turned down a playdate invitation from one of his favorite buddies and showed absolutely no interest whatsoever in Super Mario Brothers — both definite signs that he was going down for the count.  He had a sore throat, fever and chills and started vomiting about an hour after we got home.  The fun continued all day and night for the next 48 hours.  

     At one point after yet another episode of bed puking, he was lying in a tiny curled-up ball on the floor while I changed his sheets for the umpteen-bazillionth time.  He was so listless that I actually thought he’d finally fallen asleep.  However, after a few minutes I heard a crackly little voice say in an almost whisper, “What’s your name?”  I turned around to see him staring at me with a glazed look in his eyes and a tiny smile on his lips.  It actually kind of freaked me the hell out to be perfectly honest.  I wondered if maybe he’d regurgitated his mind along with the rest of his stomach lining. I told him my name, and he asked me again, “What’s your name?”   I hesitantly repeated it, and he asked me to spell it, which convinced me that he truly was going cuckoo.  I humored him and spelled it, but when he asked me again to spell it, I was ready to throw him in the car and head to the ER for a brain scan.  When I spelled it for him again, he then said in a tiny crackly voice, “No, I said to spell ‘I-T’!”  Now maybe it was pure exhaustion, or maybe it was relief, or hell, maybe I was a little cuckoo too, but I found this so hilarious that I laughed and laughed till I almost cried at the wit of my amazing boy. God love him cause I don’t know about you, but I highly doubt that I’d be cracking jokes if I felt that bad.

     By Sunday, the poor kid was so sick and so weak that he could barely even stand up, and my heart shattered into tiny pieces every time I looked at him. After taking him to the doctor, it was determined that he has a severe case of strep.  And because he wasn’t able to keep anything down, the doctor gave him the antibiotics in a shot form to be sure it did its job.  His frail little leg was so sore from the shot afterwards that he had trouble walking, and I had to carry him to the bathroom.  As I was carrying him back to bed to tuck him in last night, he took my face in his hands and very gently kissed my cheek. It was such an incredibly sweet little gesture, like he was trying to tell me thank you for taking care of him all weekend.   

     I pray to God that he’s over the hump and finally on the mend.  He’s so scrawny and thin that I can’t bear to see him lose any more weight.  I would literally do anything to make him feel better at this point.  If he said he wanted a Costa Rican banana, I’d fly there to get him one.  If he wanted to wrap up in a handmade blanket, I’d bust out my knitting needles.  If I could take the sickness out of his body and put it into mine, I’d do it in a heartbeat.  Cause that’s what parents do — you leap tall buildings in a single bound and you catch puke in your bare hands in the middle of the night.  You sacrifice yourself for the good of your kid cause there’s nothing better than a happy, healthy child.

Surgery Woes

I don’t care who you are, having surgery’s never a day at the park for anybody.  

There’s the whole starving yourself after midnight until your stomach decides to eat itself right before you get cut open,

the repeating of your name and birthdate over and over to a bazillion different nurses and doctors,

the oh-so-sexy surgical socks that make you feel like a total eighty-five year old lady,

the paper thin hospital gown that makes you feel even more like an eighty-five year old lady,

the humiliation of having to walk around to the bathroom with your ass peeking out of said paper-thin gown,

the nurse who pokes the shit out of your hand to insert the iv and discovers that she’s gonna have to also poke the shit out of your other hand as well,

the glaring lights of the operating room that make you feel like you’re on a billboard in Vegas,

the leftover bitterness of the anesthesia in your mouth that tastes like you’ve been eating hubcaps for breakfast,

the recovery nurse who speaks very little to no recognizable sounds of English and tries to give you a run-down of what to expect,

the woman in the bed next to you who won’t shut the hell up and then pukes in a bag and tells everyone about it,

the nurse who comes to check your vitals who’s apparently dipped herself in a vat of the most putrid-smelling perfume ever to be bottled and sold,

the frustration of following suit from the patient in the bed next to you and vomiting into a stack of paper towels in your own husband’s hands,

the stomach churning of having to suck on rabbit turd-shaped ice cubes that seem to have been frozen from sewer water,

the waiting around on pins and needles (literally) to decide if you’re gonna get kicked to the curb or not,

and finally, the robotic orderly who can’t even manage to say two words to you when he wheels you out and does, in fact, kick you to the curb.

However, once you can lay your head down on your own pillow in your own bed and sleep away the awfulness of the day, it feels like a little slice of heaven that you have most definitely earned.

I Want to Run Away — So Sue Me

Do you ever have those days when you just want to run away from your life for the day?  Today is one of those days for me.  My son is home sick from school today after a night of vomiting (yes, that’s right — more puking! Seriously, I don’t think I really deserve all this barf, but maybe it’s just me.) Why does it seem that my kids always pick the absolute busiest times to get sick?  I was supposed to have a parent/teacher conference with my daughter’s kindergarten teacher this morning, get Mother’s Day presents squared away, host a lunchtime playdate, go to a nail appointment, run a thousand errands and drive the soccer carpool.  At no point in today’s “to do” list did I leave any spare time for vomit.  I guess now, I have to chuck that list right out the window and swallow the reality that we will be stuck inside all day long.  (And it would just HAVE to be an absolutely gorgeous day outside today, too, wouldn’t it?!)  So, if my neighbors happen to see me running down the sidewalk like a wild-haired, cross-eyed crazy woman later this afternoon, will you please forward this post to them and explain that I’m simply looking for a temporary evacuation route from my life for a bit?  Thanks!

Goodness Gracious, Grape Balls of Puke

Well, there’s nothing quite like catching multiple bouts of puke to celebrate a 13.1 mile run!  If you read my last post, you know that I ran an out of town half marathon on Saturday while my husband and kids went camping. On the car ride home yesterday, my calves and quads were really reading me the riot act for putting them through such torture.  They, of course, were not alone in their moaning and groaning because they had some pretty stiff competition from a couple of six year olds in the back seat.  My twins were full of complaints about everything under the sun — they were hungry, tired, bored, etc.  My son, in particular, was a pure bundle of joy, refusing to eat the cheeseburger I’d bought him for lunch and insisting on a great big bag of grapes instead.  Now granted, grapes are certainly a much healthier alternative to a greasy burger, but in retrospect, it probably wasn’t the best idea for him to gorge himself on the entire gallon-size bag within just a few minutes time.  Needless to say, his car sickness kicked in, and he proceeded to spew grape chunks all over the car.  I tried my damnedest to catch what I could with my hands.  I was completely twisted around in the car, feeling every single tired muscle in my body cussing me out for once again inflicting pain and suffering upon them.  This lovely little puke parade happened not only once but twice on the ride home.  The second time, I even had the luxury of it splattering on my sunglasses and in my hair.  I wondered how many of the other 35,000 runners were having as much fun as I was.  Some of them got a trophy for their hard work and efforts…I just got a handful of grape juice and stomach acid!

Chocolate Puke

I am happy to say that we survived the twenty plus hour car trip and made it home from the family vacation all in one piece.  Granted, the return trip was not without incident — we never have a dull moment in my world!  After stopping overnight in Tennessee to catch some shut-eye, we found the traffic to be horrendous once we got back on the road yesterday morning.  My husband decided to take side roads to get ahead of the interstate “parking lot.” Unfortunately, these side roads were nothing but hills and curves, which we discovered the hard way do not mix well with five year olds and M n’ M’s. My poor son threw up a fountain of chocolate all over himself, prompting us to pull off the road in the middle of nowhere, Indiana.  As we were cleaning up the mess, a scruffy, rather mean-looking stray dog had made a beeline to our car in search of food. Apparently, my son must’ve smelled pretty appetizing because the dog had chased him around to the other side of the car.  It totally freaked me out because I suddenly had all those horrorfic images from the news flashing through my head about crazy dogs mauling small children.  Thank God this dog did not consider my son to be his idea of a tasty lunch, and we managed to get the dog to run off.  We continued to clean up the mess while I thanked my lucky stars that it was just a chocolate puke and not something more putrid, like cheese or milk.  It might sound odd, but I can deal much better with a faint smell of chocolate in a small, contained area for several hours than I can with the awfulness of putrid, sour milk (been there, done that).  After the barf-o-rama extraordinaire, we made it home without any further drama. And with a snap of the fingers, just like that, the days of lounging on the beach in the eighty degree temperatures were all but a memory….

The Family That Pukes Together….

When you’re a mom, you have to share everything — even being sick. You would think it wouldn’t be such a big deal to want to experience something so miserable on my own.  But, oh no….it has to be a family affair!  I have to just put my own sickness aside so I can roll up my sleeves and get to work tackling everybody else’s illnesses.  And those people who tell you that it’s different when it’s your own kids’ puke are just plain crazy.  Uh, hate to tell you people, but puke is puke! It’s all disgusting!  I can’t even stand to see someone barfing on t.v., so just because it comes out of my sweet little darlings does not make it any easier to tolerate.  My kids’ chunks are just as nasty as the next person’s.  There is nothing worse than cleaning up puke from your child’s bed in the middle of the night because of course, it can’t just be contained to one area.  It has to cover the ENTIRE contents of the bed, stuffed animals and all.  I’m not quite sure how I’m going to get the smell off a six foot long stuffed horse when it’s supposed to be a “surface wash only” item.  It’s looking like Mr. Buttercup might just have to suddenly disappear….