About me: I'm a 40-something mother to a pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our tween Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler Cam, and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). I'm a freelance graphic designer and writer.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
My reckless and irresponsible lifestyle caught up with me again
I left work early yesterday. I was walking around like a hunchback because of terrible stomach pains. Then came the fever and chills. I was green.
When I got home Chuck was on the phone. I heard him say, “Mrs. Mullet’s sick again. Me? I’m fine. Never felt better.” I think he even whistled.
I spent the rest of the afternoon curled up in a ball. In between bathroom runs and moaning, I did some Chuck hating. Besides his ass and kidney problems, the man is never sick, and it’s not fair.
I take vitamins. I eat fresh fruits and vegetables. Chuck lives on beer dogs and Ramen Noodles. I got plenty of rest. Chuck sleeps three to five hours a night. I brush my teeth regularly. Chuck brushes when it’s a full moon. I wash my hands like a good little washer. Chuck picks his nose, scratches his butt, rubs the bottom of his feet and then picks up a sandwich.
We both wear contacts. I wear mine for the prescribed amount of time. Then I dutifully rub them in fresh saline each time and put them in a clean case. Chuck sleeps with his contacts in, finds moldy cases, spits in the case, then plops his lenses in.
Guess who gets conjunctivitis and pink eye?
Then there’s Fred, Chuck’s parrot cup. He brings it everywhere. He never washes it. The thing has crevices that are growing bacteria that could be used for biological warfare. It’s slimy and filmy. When Chuck pours drinks into Fred, the liquid gurgles and foams. I daydream about bleaching that damn parrot.
Do you think Chuck gets intestinal parasites from it? Of course not. I swear, the man could lick the bottom of a flip-flop that had been sprayed with raw chicken juice and I’d get sick, just from watching.
Unless. Unless Chuck is the Trojan Horse of sickness. Maybe he’s the carrier. Maybe all those bacteria are partying it up in Chuck and looking for a fresh host. Chuck walks in the door, they see me and voila. Chuck the Carrier infects the poor, unsuspecting Mrs. Mullet.
I knew marriage would blow chunks.
Speaking of which. Oh God. Here it comes again.