I know that you’ve just read that title, and you’re right now patting yourself on the back, thinking, “I am so proud that I continue to further myself by reading classy and educational stuff like this very blog, which can only serve to make me a greater person in the end…”
Or not. I might guess, instead, that at this very moment, you’re wiping the tears from your sobbing face, thinking, Where did I go wrong? WHERE did I go WRONG that I continue to visit this blog, day after godforsaken day, to see what this dumbass has written??
Whatever the case may be, I love you for sticking around, even when the title is such as it is today.
On that note, here are the two prominent thoughts I had a couple of weeks ago during my third bout with this nasty, hellacious bug that has continued to strike my family. I blame my younger son, who goes to school with a bunch of other snotty preschoolers.
I should blame myself, however, because although quite a clean person who maintains a pretty damn clean house, I am so far from being a germaphobe (I once popped a half-eaten chicken nugget that I found between the seats of the car into my mouth, even though I was fairly certain that my boys and I hadn’t visited McDonald’s in at least a week) that perhaps those dirty little bastard bugs think they’re welcome in my house. I really ought to start making my family wear those sickie face masks everywhere we go. Those people never get sick, right?
I feel like I’ve gone off on a tangent, no? Ahem. So here are the thoughts I had during my most recent bout with explosive diarrhea:
1.) I could totally make it into work today. Even though I’ve been up shitting myself since 3:30 AM, and the stuff coming out sounds like pee—it literally sounds like I’m pissing through my butthole—I haven’t had an “episode” since 6:30 AM.
It’s 7:30 AM. I’m texting my boss and telling him I’m coming in.
I felt almost giddy with relief as I bent down to put on my shoe, giddy with relief that I was finally going to join the land of the living once again.
Here’s what the text actually looked like:
I was just getting ready to text you that I was coming in today after all. However, when I bent down to put on my shoes in order to take the kids to school and head into work, I pooped my pants and had to change my underwear.
And here’s the text I got back:
Hadn’t we already decided that you were staying home today? DO NOT COME IN. For the love of all that is holy, Shay, STAY HOME!!! Nobody wants the shit you’re cooking (pun intended).
Later that very same day, I picked up my older son from school. I had to time it just right; I was feeling better and although earlier that morning there had been a glorious spell during which I hadn’t shat for 2 hours, my body could still only guarantee about ½ hour between episodes, if I was lucky.
I was feeling so good during that ½ hour, in fact, that when my boys and I passed a Taco Bell on the way home, I found myself turning around and getting into the drive-through line. And that’s where the second prominent thought I had during my recent bout with explosive D came in:
2.) I am fully aware that a chili cheese burrito—or any item off of the Taco Bell menu, for that matter—is not a good idea at this point.
Mature realization, no?
I haven’t been able to eat all day, and I’m so damned hungry and a couple of bites of that chili cheese burrito (+ sour cream) will totally be worth any amount of time spent in the bathroom.
The two bites I got to have weren’t worth an hour.
But on a positive note, I did finish the book for the most recent book club I’ve joined, the one that my dad and niece threatened to kick me out of because I was taking too long with last month’s choice.
So my time in the bathroom was totally win-win.
Or just win. Whatever.