How's that for a title? Hey! Welcome to sickville - enter at your own risk. Want projectile vomit that will make you feel as though you're dying a wretched death with your rear up in the air? Please enter to your left. Would you rather have diarrhea that churns your insides like a possessed knife on a rampage? Enter to your right.
Want both? Well, you've come to the right place.
Lord Almighty we can't catch a friggin' break. This started with the sweet, sweet soul that is Landon and will, hopefully end with me. Last night Sloan threw up so violently and so much that I kid you not, some was dripping off the ceiling. Now I've probably made you all sick. You should have seen Lee and I trying to clean it up. We were well coordinated, man. It was impressive.
I slept on the couch, because I was feeling all self-sacrificial - or because it gave me a good excuse to watch all of the post-Oscar hoopla until an ungodly hour. Then I woke with the familar pang in my stomach. I tried so hard to convince myself that it was just sympathy, or perhaps due to the smell of death that permeates our home right now. Or maybe it was because Lee made me massage his feet last night due to a friendly bet that I lost. But alas, it was none of those things. At least I may lose those last few pounds, eh?
Which, incidentally, I gotta tell ya - there's nothing like throwing up with a 14 month old standing inches from your face. It's something to behold. Everytime I heaved, he cackled and every time he laughed I heard little bubbles from his behind. It was comical and totally disgusting all at once.
So now that I've completely grossed everyone out, tell me, what are you having for dinner tonight? HA! I'll not be eating. I tried a half cup of chicken noodle soup at lunch and that did not end well. Tomorrow is another day right? Good Lord - it's time to move to Florida. Vitamin D and salty air is just what the doctor ordered.