This is what I did on no sleep

So you know that really really bad stomach thing my four year old had?  Well, we realized he caught it from the hotbed of germs known as the kids play area at the mall during the busiest shopping season of the year.  In the future we will have to consider exposing them to really shitty illness as a drawback to getting the kids out of the house and away from the TV.

Our son is doing much better now, thank god, and being his regular self again.  But guess who caught it from him?

*Raising hand slowly*

And not just me.  The rest of our little family, meaning my husband and my seven year old, were also not safe from its predatory ways.

This year’s strain of the stomach flu is not the stomach flu you are familiar with.  No, not at all.  This feels more like it should be called Ebola, Jr.  I kid you not.

It leaves you feeling hot and cold at the same time.  It sends its minions to gnaw on the inside of your abdomen.  The best way I can describe the feeling is hot little dull knives poking at your innards.  The pain was what kept us awake the most.  I don’t remember dealing with so much of it during past stomach issues.  It made my not so very religiously inclined seven year old ask if it was time to pray so that Allah could take away the hurt.

You don’t know whether to shit or to barf first, they’re both so overwhelmingly compelling.  There’s an eye of the storm moment after every mad dash to the bathroom, where you think okay, that was the last one, I feel much better, until around 30-45 minutes later, when you’re doing it all over again and you realize the effing remote’s crapped out (no pun intended) and the repeat button is stuck.

The one and only good point about mutant stomach bug, version 2014 is that it moves fast.  The little slut.  The three of us caught it late Wednesday afternoon, and by early Thursday morning, we were able to give the hallway bathroom a break and get some rest.  By Thursday afternoon, I was able to get up, walk around for a few minutes, and attempt to take care of my pretty much back to normal four year old.  Yay for primary caretakers!  Where being sick means you get to do all the stuff you normally do with the addition of being sick.

Protect yourself from this year’s strain of stomach flu as well as you can, internet peoples.  You don’t want to catch this thing, believe me.  Compared to it, the stomach bug you have dealt with in the past is the common household cockroach.  This, my friends, is Godzilla.

If you think you can handle hours of shitting out all your body fluids, caressing your garbage can like it was your breastfeeding newborn, and having your ass make love to the toilet seat, then go ahead and give it a call.  You’ll find its number scrawled on the walls of dirty public bathrooms everywhere.

Ha ha.  That’s a funny one.  Get it?  Walls?  Stomach bug?  Dirty bathrooms?

You suck. 😐

It is now Friday afternoon and we are all on our way back to normal.  Lingering side effects have been a constant state of mild nausea, a heightened sensitivity to smell, and an overall feeling of having a bad hangover.  My nose is telling me there’s an open jar of sewer water somewhere in our house, but my husband is saying just stop complaining, will you? and that I’m overreacting.  Okay, then.

It’s Jurassic Park around here and just call me Tyrannosaurus Rex


Warning : Intense bitching and discussing of female issues to follow.  Enter at your own risk.

Those dinosaurs?  They’re me.  The kid scared out of his mind, cowering behind the desk?  Anyone that crosses my path a certain week out of certain months out of the year.  It’s not always like this.  It’s not always bad.  It’s usually pretty easy, minus a few cramps and way too many trips to the bathroom.  But when it gets bad, it gets bad pretty quickly.  The angry verbal lava you are spewing from your mouth runs hot and fast and before you know it, there’s been a lot of damage done.

I don’t know how women who have to deal with PMS every month manage to survive and with their marriages intact.  My periods have always been pretty symptom less, but post pregnancies, they got complicated, just like everything else in my life.  Now I don’t know what each month will bring.  It’s like being on the Price is Right.  There could be a new car behind that door or a frying pan.  I could be writhing in pain and sofa bound, cursing my uterus, ovaries, estrogen, mother nature and the cosmic forces that made me a woman.  Or the week could breeze by with minimal discomfort and I can toss and turn and sleep in whatever position I want to without worrying about waking up to the Chainsaw massacre.

This guess and go game of my reproductive cycle is distressing.  It may not seem that way, but I don’t like being a bitch.  No, I really don’t.  I feel like when I am, it’s because I’m provoked.  Examples would be when the old fart next door is mowing his lawn for the >insert any number of your liking here, it’ll work< time and that too on a Saturday morning, when no one wants to see the ass crack of dawn.  I feel like I’m usually nice to a fault, but I’m sure my husband would disagree.

This post isn’t about me, though.  It’s about me in relation to PMS.  Premenstrual syndrome.  I don’t know why they call it that when you feel the symptoms before, after, and during your cycle.  Someone enlighten me.  The worst thing, in my opinion, about PMS is that you JUST CANNOT FREAKING CONTROL IT.  It’s like a damn affliction.  When I’m swearing at the spaghetti water because “how the eff do you dare to boil that slow, your mother must have been some form of reverse osmosis shit”, I know I look like a mad woman.  But I can’t help it.  It’s like you know the bridge has collapsed and there’s a bazillion foot fall but you’re going to go on ahead anyway because your brain has lost control of the stick shift that is your mental balance.  That’s what it is.  A momentary (long moment) loss of mental balance.  Describes it perfectly for me.  I just didn’t want to use the term out of respect to people who really suffer from mental illness.  But then they say PMS can sometimes be a form of mental illness.  This is such a face palm moment.

Anyway, I hope I didn’t gross you out too much and you managed to enjoy your little tour through the female brain during uterine shedding season.  And no, I don’t think women are superior to men because they have to deal with Niagara falls in the overalls every month, even if the vein of this blog post seems to be heading in that direction.  As someone once snarkily pointed out to me, men have issues that are unique to their gender, also.  Like how to deal with their wives when aunt flow is visiting.  I see my husband’s face when I’ve turned into the housewife from hell and I hate the look I see there.  It makes me sad that I’m so mean and he’s so helpful, which unleashes another spewing of demonic proportions brought on by the frustration of knowing I’m so mean and he’s so helpful.  It’s a crazy, vicious cycle.  Pun intended.

So there’s my rant of the day/ode to my sistas.  What’s that?  I shouldn’t blog about female issues because it’s a public platform and it’s gross and what’s my problem, do I have cooties?  Well, what can I say?  That’s just how I am.  I don’t mind discussing issues of the female persuasion in the company of males as long as it’s done aesthetically, meaning I won’t ask you to see if this tampon can fit inside your nostril but I can help you out if you want to know what medicine will work best for your girlfriend and her “female problems.” What?  I sound like a bitch?  Well then, you’ll just have to forgive me.  You see, I’m on my period.

Dinosaur pic courtesy of