Do me a favor, will you?
The next time I decide to do something so asinine that it defies all reason like, say, oh, I don’t know … post on my blog that everyone in my family is healthy and no one is puking?
Feel free to come on over, drag me out into the driveway and run me over with your car. And if I protest? Throw it into reverse.
Because not ten hours after I posted yesterday, Zoe was puking … among other things.
Two hours after that, I was puking … among other things.
One hour later, Helena was simply puking, having no desire, for the first time ever, to one-up her sister.
By 7:00 p.m., I was turning every shade of the rainbow and spewing all sorts of various fluids out of every orifice on my body and at one point, I think I saw my spleen go flying across the room and land in our hamper. It was like Linda Blair from the Exorcist had swallowed the Teletubbies and burped God Bless America for five straight hours.
Thankfully, Nate did not come down with any of this and I know exactly why and it’s not because he used up almost an entire can of Lysol spraying it everywhere downstairs, including all over himself. No, it’s because I stood in front of him, green faced, holding my barf bowl under my chin and rolling my eyes while laughing like a deranged lunatic and cackling OH PLEASE. LIKE THAT’S GOING TO HELP. I’LL GET YOU MY PRETTY! AND YOUR LITTLE DOG TOO! EVEN THOUGH WE DON’T HAVE A DOG. Because I was also channelling a slightly delusional Wicked Witch of the East as well.
Nate did not puke or gush anything out of sheer spite. The lengths that man will go to prove me wrong is mind boggling and bathing in Lysol, keeping down a gallon of stomach contents and stapling his sphincter shut is but child’s play if it means that I’m wrong and he’s right about something. And that means, I can no longer complain about the disgusting stench of Lysol because he will simply look at me pointedly and the phrase I TOLD YOU SO will explode out of his head and cop a squat all over my face, without him having to even open his mouth.
But I don’t care because Nate was our hero last night. He pulled his shirt over his nose and moved between Zoe, Helena and me and the three bathrooms we occupied, rubbing our backs, holding our heads, wiping our chins, giving us water and thanking God above that we all have pretty good aim as no sheets, rugs or jammies were defiled in the process. Although to be fair, he hasn’t yet looked in the hamper. At one point, he even picked me up off the floor after I passed out, revived me, took my blood pressure and then proceeded to have an argument with me about whether or not to call an ambulance. I happened to win that one which goes to show the lengths I will go to not be caught even remotely alive outside the house with unshaven armpits and legs.
Today, Nate is working from home because Zoe, Helena and I are busy playing roadkill. At this very moment, he’s at Wegmans picking up some Tylenol and Popsicles. And probably some more Lysol.
I love that man, stapled sphincter and all.