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August 23, 2005

Blog Called On Account of Vomit

The Boy's, not mine, although that could change in the next 24-48 hours.

Which, okay, no problem. I have about 40 relatives coming for Labor Day and The Boy's birthday, party accoutrements to gather for same, and in my infinite wisdom I have decided that this week is the week to repaint the guest room, clean the carpets and Destroy All Clutter. Oh, and then there's the small matter of work. Of which I currently have a lot. All hail the beginning of the semester and the launch of the biggest fundraising campaign in the university's history! Woo!

So a stomach virus is really no problem. No problem at all. Insert slightly maniacal laughter here. And my mother is her usual helpful self--when I called to commiserate here's the conversation that ensued:

Me: Well, looks like The Boy's got a tummy virus. Fever and nausea--threw up once today and some diarrhea.

Mom: You know you were swimming in that pool at the beach.

Me: Mom. Just because your friend Joyce got sick at a pool it doesn't follow that every single person who sticks even a single toe into a chlorinated water receptacle will get sick. And also, that was two weeks ago--what, this virus has the incubation period of Mad Cow Disease?

Mom: I'm just saying.

Me: I know. You said it every day for a week. As I recall, you even leaned over the balcony to yell, "GET OUT OF THAT NASTY POOL!" while we were swimming.

Mom: You're exaggerating.

Me: Right. You never said "nasty."

Mom: You know I worry.

Me: I've begun to suspect as much, yes. How about when you get here next Friday I just feed you cocktails and you spend the weekend in a pleasant haze? Because when we get to the party and all those kids are flinging themselves headlong down the giant inflatable slides...I don't want to be responsible for your stroke.

Mom: I think I might want to try the giant slide.

Me: Or your broken hip. One word, mother: cocktails. I'm prepping the blender for your arrival as we speak.

Mom: You're impossible.

So. I'm off to dose the family with pepto bismol and motrin as needed. Have a great tomorrow.

Posted by Big Arm Woman at August 23, 2005 08:44 PM

You do that too? There's nothing like that kind of event crisis to push She Who Is Perfect In All Ways to start home improvement projects. "I'm overwhelmed with planning for the dinner and work! So let's install new shelves and curtains."

Posted by: Annoying Old Guy at August 24, 2005 08:51 PM

Blame estrogen. Because that's the only reason I can come up with for my strange masochistic "all home improvements must be completed in the week before a huge family gathering" urges.

Posted by: BAW at August 25, 2005 09:35 AM

Anxiety is not enough. You need turmoil and frustration.

Posted by: Ron Hardin at August 25, 2005 09:38 AM