| Wednesday, February 22, 2006 |
| stop the train, I want to get off |
WARNING: This post is not for the faint of heart. If you have a medical condition that restricts you from say, riding roller coasters or maybe eating red meat, this ain't fer you. Move it along, buddy.
There was a guy at my high school who's favorite thing to say after graduation was, "Did I tell you about the time I grew a colony of bacteria in my eye?" He worked in a lab. These things happen.
Some of you may be wondering why I decided to jet off to Malibu and not tell anybody. Believe me, the closest I've come to travel this week was everybody's favorite trip: the one way ticket to Vomitville courtesy of the Rotavirus Express.
I can't help myself. I just think that's so.darn.funny. Except when I'm the victim, of course. Nobody likes to be a victim.
Let's recount the week's past events, shall we:
Monday
6:00 am - Wake up with the feeling that something ain't right. Get ready for work.
9:30 - Give some choice words to a co-worker that I was in no mood to deal with and totally deserved it.
9:35 - Penciled in the inevitable meeting with HR concerning said choice words.
Lunch - Eat leftovers.
Lunch thirty - Wish I hadn't.
4:30 pm - Sit on couch and moan while watching Lauren march by with two rolls of toilet paper on each arm and our plunger stuck to her head. Moan some more.
5:00 pm - Feel Farlito stand up in my lap and see him assume the "yak" pose. Leap up with renewed energy, point at the door, and shout, "OUTSIDE!"
6:00 pm - Feel the urge to yak while watching the CBS Evening News.
6:24 pm - Yak in to kitchen waste basket.
6:25 pm - Repeat
6:27 pm - Rinse
6:30 pm - Repeat
1:00 am - Hear Lauren crying, head to her room. See Rancito sleeping on the couch and hear him moan, "I have a FEVAH!" Go in to rescue Lauren and find her standing up in her crib doing her slack-wristed pick-me-up-now dance. Quickly observe that she is wet down the front...with chunks. Change the I'm-writing-a- thank-you-letter-to-Pampers-in-the-morning- for-containing-this- near-poonami cesspool blowout.
It was bad. The worst I've seen. Like that means anything.
6:00 am - Call in dead to work.
So really, I'm not ignoring you all. I'm just...incapacitated. I took a sick day yesterday and indulged in some good old 270-thread count happiness all.darn.day. To you non-parents out there, this is what you call sleep. I like to refer to it as the sweet nectar of the blow-out poopie diaper gods.
I later found Farlito projectile by the back door and cursed the blow-out poopie diaper gods - Fist jammed in air, pained look on face, everything.
So you want to hear some good news? My Lauren, she's getting good at this laundry thing. 600 loads of I'll-let-you-pick-the-end-blowout a day will do that to a toddler.
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| posted by ieatcrayonz @ 2/22/2006 |
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