In our unceasing quest to control Lilly’s behavior, she’s no longer allowed in bed with me (or by herself) until Kenny comes up. So, I have to listen to her breathing under the door. It’s been silent for a while, so I almost thought that she had given up and gone downstairs to be with the boys.
Then . . .
I heard her dog farts through the door!!
That’s my baby! 🙂
. . . I did NOT make it upstairs to the bathroom in time. Just when I thought I was done with laundry for today, my body decided otherwise. Those *were* clean jammie pants, donned right after my pre-dinner, shower. I’m sick, I didn’t feel the need to bathe first thing in the morning. Now, I wish I had waited a couple of hours more.
My tummy rumbled and warned me. My husband gagged as I carpet bombed the living room on my way to the couch. “Jesus!” “I know, it’s going to be one of those nights when I need a book in the bathroom.” “Ugh,” was his reply.
I sat down on the couch, prepared to be bored shitless (ha ha ha) with more of the Top Shot marathon that he’s been watching (and I’ve been facebooking) since we woke up this morning (to my hacking and gagging on phlegm – or however that is spelled). No sooner than my cheeks hit the couch cushion . . .
“Uh-oh! Oh no! Oh no!” I rip the power cord out of my laptop, dump my cellphone on the keyboard, grab my bottle of iced tea and attempt to beat the churning to the potty.
Ass: still winning.
Me: back to more laundry as soon (yeah right) as I’m done in here.
Happy Saturday night! Normally this is my Sunday evening pre-work stress explosion. Perhaps I’m getting it out-of-the-way tonight, so I’ll be fine to go out for my mother-in-law’s birthday dinner tomorrow?! *crossing fingers and clenching cheeks*
Oh IBS, MS, how I love the havoc you both wreak on my body constantly. But, it could ALWAYS be worse. I could live in a country with no indoor plumbing.
I don’t feel good. Whine whine whine. I feel like a poop sammich.
Why is it that whenever I start to feel the least bit yucky, my MS flares and my guts rumble? It’s like the slightest hint of illness sends my system into total breakdown mode. Such delightful fun, let me tell you! And I will . . . (stop reading now if you’re eating) . . .
I have green snot running down my face and oozing down the back of my throat, filling my stomach and lungs. My butt is rumbling with gaseous threats of ominous proportions. My throat feels as if I’m being strangled from the inside. My left foot is completely numb. I’m coughing up nothing, just dry painful pseudo-wretching . . . except in the morning, then I get huge wads of parts of what I’m sure should be my organs. My eyes are watering, either from fatigue or fever, but probably both.
Why the hell did I go to work all week??
Because I had work to do. Still do. I have work I feel I need to get done this weekend. Yet I’m too tired to even think about it. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps not.
On va voir . . .
PS: And now my leg is spasming and my face is twitching. Fantastic. *sigh*
. . . of counting my blessings . . .
My stomach is doing it’s Sunday thing today, and yes, I “pulled a Martha” while getting the dogs’ breakfasts ready. So, after a week of feeling relatively shitty, no pun intended, and a weekend of feeling so yucky I haven’t showered since Friday before work (you may gag here) . . . needless to type, I was not feeling up to going to the Super Bowl party at our friends’ house.
So, what does my husband do? Stay home with me, cook us dinner, and we have yet to even flick over to the game, or any game-related coverage. *loving sigh* In fact, we just watched one of my DVRd episodes of Lockup, and now we’re watching a program about mammoths on PBS. So, for those who may think he is just a big dumb animal (and I am sometimes among you) . . . remember this . . . I’M WATCHING PBS WITH MY HUSBAND ON SUPER BOWL SUNDAY!!!!!! 🙂
We all know how I feel about dog ear wax *barf in my mouth.* Well, faithful readers (all two of you?), I’ve discovered a second. Buddy, our roughly 13-year-old American Stafforshire Terrier, is visiting us for a few days while Ken’s grandmother is in the hospital. Last night, whilst he was frumfering around in Kenny’s big chair, we caught him licking the arm of the chair. Upon further examination, it was blood! Panic ensues, and we boot him off the chair. I start hunting for animal-friendly, blood-removing chemicals and paper towels. Kenny moves in on Buddy to investigate the problem. “He’s got a hemorroid!” comes the cry from the living room floor. “What do we do?” “Can we use Preparation H?” As if I know. So, as I am lying on the chair, with my face inches away from a smear of bloody dog poo, Kenny is on the floor with the dog, putting ointment on his butthole. We both had to laugh, though. “What did you guys do that night?” “Well, I scrubbed bloody turd off our furniture.” “And I wiped my dog’s asshole.” Yeah, we’re that kind of people. Now, this in an of itself, did not gross me out.
I went into the kitchen to wash my hands, and in comes Kenny, peeling off rubber gloves over a handful of bloody paper towels. Blood doesn’t bother me in the least . . . but there was something about that moment that made my stomach heave and I had to look away.
I love my dogs. So, evidentally, does my husband. Very much.
So, the stress of this week (yes, it’s only Tuesday) has caught up with me. Kenny and I were loading the dishwasher (yes, team work – go fig) and I bent over to put some forks in . . . and . . . LOW and behold . . . out slips some runs, without warning or churning or fart.
Now, had I been paying attention to Lilly, I would have known this was going to happen. After dinner, she climbed up onto me, paws on my chest and laid her full body weight on me. Then, when Kenny got up to go to the bathroom, she barked and growled at him.
So . . . that brings us back to the dishes. Out slips some poo, and upstairs I scamper, cheeks clenched in the only true exercise my ass gets. I got a couple short chapters read (I *did* manage to grab my book from my tote bag before heading for zee hillz) while black diarrhea sprayed out of my butt.
J and I managed to coin a delightful phrase this evening at work. All those of us with rectal issues were having them in full-force today . . . fighting for the privacy of the staff bathroom and gagging on the stench of each others’ poos. Yes, I yelled at one of my co-workers to get out of the bathroom as she repeatedly courtesy flushed for herself. When J got to work, she told me that she had been having the poos all day, and there was nothing left to poo, but her guts were still convulsing.
“Dry Anal Heaves.”
Although, upon further reflection (reflatulation?), “Anal Dry Heaves” rolls off of the tongue and out of the butt far better.
“Anal Dry Heaves.”
That’s where I’m at now.
Lilly is in bed with me, snoring and having a dog dream. I don’t know what she’s chasing, but it’s shaking the bed.
My stomach is jiggling, making my guts rumble and I feel the bubbles.
She’s going to wake up when I make a mad dash for the bathroom in a minute.
Sweet dreams, little pooper.