It Could Have Been the Bubonic Plague

I don’t really get sick. The last time I had a cold, which was actually pneumonia, was back in 2008 when my father-in-law passed away. Imagine having to mourn the loss of your beloved FIL while also having to stand vertically in a suit, and heels, to attend funeral services and all that goes along with it, for hours on end? Good times.

The last time I had a stomach bug is not even registered in my memory banks. When The Kid was little and brought home whatever ailment-of-the-week was from her school, I never got it. (There was the incident in Turks & Caicos, but I blame that on the water.)

So, when DH became sick last Sunday night with something that very much resembled the stomach flu, I had no fear. My confidence was in overdrive and although I probably should have stayed away, I didn’t.

Little did I know, it was too late. There was something akin to the Grim Reaper already lurking in the background.

But more on that in a minute.

As I left for work Monday morning, I asked how he was and what I could get for him because you know, I would be fine and could stop by the store for soup or Gatorade or Lysol on my way home.

Hell, I could even stop into the local Mexican restaurant for Chimichangas and double shots of Margaritas. I was feeling that cocky.

But by evening, my confidence had started to wane. There would be no Mexican restaurant stop, and although I was hungry for the leftover enchiladas in my fridge, throwing up is NOT my favorite pastime. I had enough smarts to know if I put that in my stomach it may be coming up in a short few hours. And it wouldn’t be pretty.

That was my strategy. If I didn’t eat at all and let the salad I had at noon be the only thing in my gastrointestinal tract, surely that all would have digested by then so there would be nothing to worry about.

Except somehow, no matter how much you starve or dehydrate yourself there is always something that will come out of some orifice somewhere.

And it will continue to come out until pigs fly. Which means forever. 

At one point I feared for my life. At least hourly for the next twelve hours I was awakened by a rumbling and a strange suspicion that I was about to resemble a human volcano.

I managed to text my boss at 6AM saying there was nothing that could make me get out of bed.

Except diarrhea.

By noon, I had started to feel better. I even made myself some rye toast and applesauce (half of the BRAT diet…the old Dr. Mom comes out on occasion), and sat up to watch some television.

I couldn’t wait to get back into the office the next day. There is nothing worse than feeling anything less than human.

Except at about 6PM on Tuesday, I started to feel a little feverish. Then within minutes I was shivering so badly I nearly shimmied myself off the couch. With a quick temp check — something I haven’t done for myself since I was about twelve — it seemed I had spiked a fever of 102.

So, now I sit here writing this on Wednesday, four pounds lighter, because I feel pretty good. I’m definitely back to feeling human and I’m looking forward to getting dressed and actually looking human as well.

I’m not really sure what my point is, except getting a good virus sure does make you realize how often we take our good health for granted. I swear I will never take it for granted again.

Until next week, of course.

And as for those four pounds? You can guarantee they will find their way back home by the end of Thursday.

Edited to add: It is now Monday — one full week later. And to answer your question, yes. Those four pounds found their way home. They must have left a breadcrumb trail. They sure do think of everything.

Boxed Wine Equals One Bad Ass

I love wine.  I love wine so much that I drink at least a glass a day.  Did you know that if you drink it in moderation, it’s good for your health?  That’s why I really like it but it also makes me feel relaxed after a long day.  There is nothing like that warm, calm feeling I get after that first sip.  You know, kind of like that feeling you get during a massage but almost better.  I said almost.

Wine can get expensive and I am cheap.  If I could, I would buy my wine in a box all the time.  I would sit that baby up on my countertop with its little spigot and just go and drink from the fountain whenever my heart desired.  It’s there, it’s ready, it’s fully loaded with lots of liquid yummy-ness.

But I can’t.  I’m about to say something that will make you say, “hey Mo, this is waaaay too much information” but that’s okay.  Because we all know that I am all about sharing TMI, putting it all out there.  When do I ever hold back?  Anyway, I discovered that I was sensitive to the amazingly awesome invention of the boxed wine during my engagement party circa 1991.

Here’s how it went down:  I drank a couple of glasses of it, I was having a great time.  The future DH and I were at the front of the room opening our ten thousand gifts when the first “rumble, grumble, pop” hit me faster than a run-away freight train going down the Himalayas.  I excused myself and ran — not walked — to the nearest restroom.  What came out of me was obscene.  And it didn’t stop.  For a very long time.  I had a horseshoe printed on my bottom from sitting for so long.  I’m surprised it wasn’t followed up by a hemorrhoid.  What was especially sad about this story is that when I finally exited the lavatory, most everyone had gone home.  You could hear crickets.  Seriously.


Yes, that is a pic of me on the left sitting on the toilet.  My wonderful mother snuck her camera up over the stall.  You know, just in case I forgot the turmoil of what was supposed to be a happy day.  The future DH is feeding me some alcohol in the form of Imodium AD.  Does Imodium even contain alcohol?

Was it a coincidence?  Possibly, but I’m not 100% completely certain.  So to test it, I had some boxed wine at Thanksgiving that year.  Just half a glass.  All I can say is that thank God none of the 20+ people in attendance were using the toilets in the house at that moment because it came on strong, hard and sudden.  Although the planter in the hall would have worked just fine as a second choice.  And I would not have had a problem using it.  Not that I really would have had much of a choice.

As if there weren’t enough proof, I actually tried boxed wine one other time after that.  I don’t remember the details exactly but I do remember the same effect.  I’m guessing that there is some kind of preservative they put into boxed wine to make it last longer.  I’m also going to take another guess and say that I don’t get along well with this preservative.  Who knows.  All I do know is that I can’t drink it.  Not even a sip.

So, if I am coming to your house, please don’t serve me wine in a box.  Unless you want to see a show.  Or hear a show.  Or have a sudden septic problem.  Seriously.  Don’t mess with me.  It will backfire.  Pardon the pun.