badness, humor

I fall out of love with Rubio’s

This weekend was a shit show for me health-wise.  I’d been sick all week.  Saturday I covered for another sensei, then sped up town to see a therapist with Sister re: mom.  I stopped at the Rubio’s near my apartment (which I have on speed dial), picked up my usual order (shrimp burrito), and ate on my way to the appointment.  About twenty seconds after I get in my car to head home after the meeting, things started getting shifty toward my mid-section.  Apparently that shrimp burrito was disagreeing with my stomach, and my stomach was disagreeing right back.

without warning, the shrimp laid waste to my esophagal lining

Back home, Diminutive Roommate was busy cleaning up and making a mess.  She had 30 Rock on, and doted on me as my condition worsened.  After a couple episodes of Liz pretending she was pregnant and Kenneth talking about turtles, it was time.  Time to hurl.

Then it was time to feel sorry for myself, and self-medicate with some Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  Musical episode!  Cooler than I expected!  New favorite character: Spike.  Stomach getting spewly again, take some Pepto Bismol.  Not as gross as I remember.  Awesome.  Text Karate Boss that I won’t be in tomorrow.  I feel a little better.

Too much stimulation.  Lie down.  Feel worse.  Hurl again, furiously.  Break into a sweat, peel off layers.  Go back to bed.  Sleep for two hours.  Wake up feeling shitty.  Where the fuck is Boyfriend.  Someone should be touching my head and cooing.

Diminutive Roommate pops her head in to let me know she and her date are going to a nearby Indian place I like.  I graciously decline: “Wow, that sounds just awful.  Thanks though, have fun.”

More Buffy.  Giles, don’t go!  Again!  Back to bed without sleep.  Boyfriend FINALLY shows up.  I fake sleep at first, then decide softly moaning is the best way to make him feel guilty for having dinner with an old friend he hasn’t seen in five years.  It totally works.  Lots of cooing and hair stroking ensue.  I feel a little better.

I fucking love pumpkins

He drives us to the Japanese market/food court nearby.  I get my favorite: breaded pumpkin, soy sauce on the side, just $2!  Delicious.  Boyfriend gets kontatsu (breaded pork) on rice with curry.  Smells gross.  I make a face.

In the parking lot, we sit in the car for a little while.  The sun feels so nice, I wish we could stay there, but I can tell Boyfriend is bored and I would get sunburned.  Boyfriend drives us home.  He takes the good way (no speed bumps).  Good job, Boyfriend.

Back to bed without changing clothes.  Boyfriend sets up laptop with headphones to catch up with me on Buffy.  Watches musical episode and loves it (of course), then episode where everyone forgets who they are.  Hilarious.  We laugh.  I sleep until 1am, and find Boyfriend still up.  Demand he goes to sleep.  Very grumpy.  Strip, get water, then back to sleep.  Forget to turn off alarm.

Wake up to alarm next morning (fuck).  Can’t get back to sleep.  Lie still, and try to ignore stomach.  Still being disagreeable, but no hurling so far.  Feeling optimistic about recovery and totally exhausted.  Think about little mice warriors for about an hour (re-reading Mouse Guard, so fucking cute).  Drink water, stay in bed all day.  Snap to attention at 3:02pm.  “Boyfriend!  Puppy Bowl!”  It’s Super Bowl Sunday, but who cares; the Puppy Bowl is on at 3 on Animal Planet.  We watch highlights online.  More adorable than predicted.  Kitten halftime show is a mess.  I feel a little better.

Four o’clock: Time to head over to friend’s house for birthday dinner.  Lie on couch and watch friend play Mass Effect 2.  Supercool female characters with awesome ninja abilities totally distracts me from squirly intestines.  Win!

Nine o’clock: Time for dinner.  Home made fried chicken, corn and carrots, garlic bread, macaroni and cheese.  I wash a bunch of dishes to feel useful.  Eat two pieces of chicken, half a corn on the cob, and some mac n’ cheese.  Astounded by my stomach’s agreement with said foods.

1045: Time to go home, but Boyfriend wants to stay and play Super Street Fighter IV.  Ballerina Friend volunteers!  We live close to each other anyway.  Boyfriend says he’ll be home soon.  I tell him to stop lying and have fun.

1120: Grumpy.  We head out and have a fun chat in the car.  Ballerina Friend is so nice.


3am: Boyfriend comes home.  I make fun of him as well as I can in my sickened, sleepy stupor.  Do a pretty good job.

721: Alarm goes off.  Hit snooze five or so times.  Get to work late.  No one seems to mind.  Food poisoning seems to get you out of any and all obligations.  Win!


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