How to recover from a girls’ night out to keep a promise for your kids the next day: one Big Gulp, half a Panera quiche, one hot shower, one bowl of oatmeal, three bananas, two B-12 vitamins, two Alka-seltzers in Vitamin Water, one tablespoon of honey, one cold shower, six Advil, 10 Saltines, one Gatorade, and one plunge into an ice-cold Lake Michigan.
Monthly Archives: July 2010
After wiping Aidan’s ass, the two of us were looking at our reflections in the mirror while we scrubbed feces from our hands. “Mom, it’s you and me forever,” he whispers, “for as long as I poop.”
Note to self: Do not be annoyed when husband stays in bed sick all day upon returning from a six-day biz trip because he just might end up in the ER with a giant kidney stone and you’ll feel like a real jackass.
I’ll admit it: when it comes to my husband being sick, I often call bullshit. I do the same thing to my kids and don’t come to my senses until I am cleaning puke off the berber. So, when my husband calls me at work saying that he is in pain because he can’t take a dump, I am less than compassionate. “Drink some Pepto.” Then when he calls me again saying that he called my dad over to watch the kids, I am mildly concerned. When I come home to find him pale as a ghost and dry heaving on our front lawn, I am just scared. And remorseful. And hoping the neighbors don’t see him.
Seeing that we just paid off the hospital bills from Aidan mysterious parasite stint which involved puking and shitting at the exact same time for two weeks, we decided to drive 20 minutes to the immediate care rather than rake up another ER bill at the hospital that is literally at the end of our block. Three questions about his balls, two shots in the ass, and one diagnosis later: get to the ER. You have a kidney stone.
He gets doped up and I have to admit, he’s a very witty and charming stoner. The next day, we are at the urologist’s office with fabulous penis décor everywhere you look. The stone is as large as a marble, so they have to put a stick up his dick and break it up with sonic waves. It didn’t work. They try again. That doesn’t work. In the meantime, you can hear the poor guy scream every time he has to go to the bathroom. And because of the stent, orange, medicated pee shoots out like a garden hose. At least it’s easy to spot before sitting down. (Want to see for yourself? Search Herb Dove Takes a Pee on YouTube — will take you back to the days of Beavis and Butthead.)
As all else fails, the doc finally had to go up —cross legs here — and dig the stones out. One by one. (On the upside, they did some complimentary manscaping down there.) The fifth and final time they knock him out is to remove the stent. The doc is visiting us in pre-op, going over the procedure when Tom asks if he can bring the straw that is up his privates home because his buddy wants to see it. I am mortified. The doc is unfazed as explains the government regulations against taking home a TUBE THAT WAS UP YOUR PENIS. So the doc offers to take a money shot of Tom’s… stent. In fact, afterwards, he said he spent more time taking the picture than on the whole procedure.
After seeing the dickstick, I finally handed over my childbirth trump card. It was a nice 10-year run.
Eileen loves hamsters. We have two furry friends that she licks on a regular basis. So, when asked to watch one of her BFF’s rodents for a long weekend, she was thrilled. Upon the hand-off, the mom pulls me aside and says, “Just a heads up that Cutie Pie has a tumor on its leg. I just didn’t want you to freak out. She gets around just fine, so we are not worried about it.” Gotcha. Have a great trip.
Two days later, I wake up to: “MOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!! Cutie Pie is bleeding all over the place!!!!!!!!” Eileen is sobbing at side of my bed.
I run to the cage and find that Cutie Pie tried to CHEW OFF THE NASTY GROWTH on her leg. (Even as disgusted as I am with my muffin top, I would never attempt to gnaw it off. Mmm. Muffins… I digress.) Anyway, there she is with this gaping hole in her little leg with blood all over the wood chips. I am a little queasy at this point.
“Mom. Mom. Mom. What do we do? My friend will be devastated!”
So I Google “hamsters with bleeding tumors” which displays more grotesque pictures of hairy little animals with open wounds. One site recommends cleaning the hamster and stopping the bleeding with olive oil. I take the poor thing out of her cage, dunk her in water and apply olive oil with a Q-tip onto her sore while simultaneously praying and gagging. (Wonder if there is a market for pet Baptisms?) Cutie Pie looks at me with her big brown eyes as if saying, “What the hell are you doing? Frying me up for breakfast?” She hobbles back into her cage, soaking wet in water and I assure Eileen that everything is going to be okay.
Two hours later: “MOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!! Cutie Pie is dead!!!!!!!!”
Are you friggin’ kidding me? I try — unsuccessfully — to calm Eileen down. Explain that Cutie Pie is in Heaven and that she was loved right up until the end. She is sick about her friend’s reaction that the hamster died on our watch. And not just a plop and drop. A full hari kari.
I send Eileen away, grab a little coffee tin, line it with napkins and place Cutie Pie good side up just in case her friend peaks. Hmm. Okay, scrap the Baptism idea and replace with “King’s Groom and Tomb.”
RIP QT PIE