Thank you for joining the circle (not the circle of hell in the title; the circle of friendship) and taking a stand--I was afraid that I was going to be out here alone with my ass waving in the breeze...why my pants would be down, I don't know. Feel free to get up and leave the circle for a moment if you are squeamish about vomit because I am about to tell you a story about the stomach flu including the sad tale of Mr. Whisker's near earectomy.
As I was about to hit publish on that last post, understandably anxious and debating whether it was cathartic enough to simply write the words or whether they needed to be published and commented on in order to gain closure, I heard a garbled sound and shouts of "shit, Mel!" coming from upstairs. By the time I got up the stairs, the Wolvog was standing by the toilet with Josh, coated in his own vomit. He threw up a thimble-sized amount into the toilet and we congratulated him for getting at least some of it in the bowl. Josh warned me that there was a hefty-sized mess in his room and I went back down to get cleaner and garbage bags and paper towels. Oh, and latex gloves, dear Lord, latex gloves.
At this point in the story, the Wolvog had been holding his beloved Mr. Whiskers, a stuffed animal cat that my sister gave him a few months ago. I did not check said cat and instead tossed it into the sink in order to free his hands and collect his clothing and slippers. We hosed him down, put on new pyjamas, and tossed the bedding and clothing into the washing machine, forgetting about Mr. Whiskers. And then we tackled the room.
The thing you need to understand is that we recarpeted the house when we moved in and I've done a decent job at keeping the carpets stain-free for many years. One of my proudest moments ever was when the ChickieNob projectile vomited and it bypassed the carpet entirely, landing solely on the chair a few feet away. She pointed out this fact to the Wolvog in her most preachy voice while they watched us clean, "you know, I've thrown up two times. Or maybe four times. But I always throw up only on my bed and myself because Mommy cleans it up faster. You are a messy vomiter."
And so he was. It was his first time having the stomach flu and he managed to hit every inch of carpet surrounding his bed. Of course, I had fed him something stain-inducing right before bed therefore the carpets were a lovely shade of barbecue sauce and (again, if you're squeamish, you may want to close this post, though you'll miss the earectomy) covered in undigested chicken. You remember that part where I'm a vegetarian, right? So it was about 11:30 p.m. and we were cleaning up chicken that was staining the carpets. In the meantime, the Wolvog was sitting in a rocking chair watching us and this was what he kept saying to no one in particular as we scrubbed:
"I'm sick, but I'm happy. I am really happy right now, even though I'm sick."
Close to midnight, we closed the door and everyone said goodnight and I decided to hit publish while we waited for the laundry to be ready for the dryer. I mentioned to Josh that I felt a bit queasy after the clean-up which was odd for me because while I don't enjoy cleaning up bodily fluids, I'm not really squeamish. I can see something disgusting and still keep eating (except for rice--rice was ruined for me by an image I saw in one of my medical anthropology textbooks one night in college and I didn't eat rice for years). But I was fairly queasy around midnight.
Of course, the clothes and bedding were not entirely clean so we had to put them through the washing machine again and it was close to 1 a.m. when we finally crawled into bed, bolting back to the Wolvog's room several times during the night whenever we heard a whimper with thoughts of additional clean-up dancing in our heads.
Around 5 a.m., the Wolvog fell out of bed and after we got him settled, I realized that I was going to be sick and went on to be ill for an hour. Some people may do the math and realize that I emailed them around the same time I was vomiting and I just want to state for the record that I emailed people after I couldn't go back to sleep because I was more nauseated lying down than sitting up. I did end up going back to sleep for a few more hours and was awoken by the Wolvog coming into my room and deciding that he felt crappy enough that he deserved a video. I was down that until I learned his choice.
He wanted to watch My Little Pony.
And even worse than hearing the ponies was the fact that said video was only 14 minutes long and therefore needed tending every 14 minutes.
It was like lying in a vomit-scented haze somewhere near the 7th circle of hell*.
Later in the day, I was feeling somewhat better so Josh decided to go down to work, but when the door closed, the ChickieNob pointed out that a large wasp had gotten inside and was on the window. I usually catch wasps and bees in cups and take them outside (I know, it makes no sense--I'm fine with bees that could hurt me but I am terrified of crickets that can't?) but I decided to suck this one into the Dyson because it was just that sort of a day.
It got sucked into the vacuum and I turned off the motor and the wasp began flying around in the clear canister. It was a little grey with dust, but still moving along which was amazing. I mean, it lived through the entrance into the vacuum and the root cyclone technology. I turned on the vacuum again, explaining to the ChickieNob that I'd like the wasp to quiet down and go to sleep. I let it run for another 30 seconds or so and turned off the machine. And the wasp picked himself up and went back to flying. I turned on the machine again and has an extended conversation--probably two minutes in length--while I sweetly smiled and hoped my child wouldn't ask me what I was doing to the wasp.
And the wasp began flying yet again the moment I turned off the vacuum. He was dust-covered and a little dizzy, but still kicking. I took him outside and set him free, though knowing my luck, after all of that, he probably died in the pile of dust outside the front door.
Later in the day, we returned to the bathroom for our bath and found poor Mr. Whiskers still languishing in the sink. I forgot to dump him in the washing machine with the rest of the bedding and his ears were coated with caked-on vomit. I tried to explain that it was too late for Mr. Whiskers, that there was little chance to remove the stench from his orange-like "fur" now that it had seeped into the cat. The only solution would be an earectomy.
"Plenty of cats," I reasoned, "are missing ears. If you go and see Cats, I believe they even sing about one of the cats missing his ears. Or part of an ear. Which is sort of the same thing."
"Mr. Whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiskers," the Wolvog moaned.
"Let's just table this for the day and take our bath."
My plan was to revisit the issue of Mr. Whiskers in the morning and his impending earectomy. See what my mother could do about reshaping his head. And then we ended the day as it began, with the sugary sweet voices of the ponies singing about rainbows and flowers, lying on my side, figuratively in the 7th circle of hell.
*Why the 7th circle? Because vomiting feels like such a violent act of the body. And because doesn't everyone aim to open up a discussion on Dante's nine circles of hell?