In Sickness and In Health

My wife is sick.

It may have come from the 20+ degree fluctuations in temperature this last week. I blame El Nino for the bi-polar weather that has dumped close to two feet of snow on our heads, then jumps to a balmy 40^o Fahrenheit, inspiring shorts and flip-flops to fly out of drawers and everyone to think we're living in the Bahamas.

It may have come from extended contact with any of her 30 cousins over the Christmas holiday. Lord knows what bacterial, viral, or homicidal specimens creepy-crawled their way from those cute little elementary school hands into my wife's ears, nose, or throat.

Regardless of the source, she is officially sick. The doctors have deemed it,

“SINUSITIS”

Evidently she's been infected by sinuses. I hope I don't catch the little buggers. I've gone my whole life without a single sinus, and I don't plan on catching one now.

Nursemaid to the Stars

I don't know if you realize this, but as a husband, it is your duty to care for your ailing wife in times of suffering. The clause “In sickness and in health” includes sinusitis.

It all began with a tickle, located somewhere in the back of her throat. Annie's voice sounded a little raspy, but we chocked it up to talking over the ravenous din of ecstatic cousins and exuberant aunts. But then, the aches and pains started. The soreness led to an all out whine of despair that bore a striking resemblance to Randy from A Christmas Story. Instead of,

“I can't put my arms down!”, her wails of despair were saying,

“My whole body hurts!”.

After a healthy regimen of over the counter pharmacological cocktails, cold washcloths, and love, it was obvious that I was losing the war against this vehement virus. I admitted defeat and she went to the doctor. She waited two hours for five minutes of face time with a physician who didn't have time for bedside niceties. A few routine pokes and prods and the verdict was in: SINUSITIS.

Pharmacists Don't Smile

Out the door she went, sinusitis in one lobe, prescription in the other. I got a phone call about an hour later.

“They said I have to wait 25 minutes for the prescription. Will you pick it up for me?”

“Of course. Go home and rest. I'll bring it by in a bit.”

A half an hour later, I head to the pharmacy. The lady at the counter retrieves my white bag from the sea of bins behind her.

“There's a five dollar charge for flavoring.”

“She got flavoring? What kind of flavoring?”

“Watermelon. It's out of season, so there's a five dollar charge. Is that OK?”

“Well, you can't remove the flavoring now, can you?” I joked. Anything to help get this Codeine infused swill down.

“Have you ever taken these medicines before?” she responded with deathly seriousness.

“They're not for me...My wife – I'm not Ann, I'm Chris.”

“Have you taken them or not?” Her tone was tinged with an irritation you might find in someone surrounded by sick people all day.

“No. No ma'am.”

“I'll have a pharmacist explain them to you. CONSULTATION!” she bellowed into the shelves behind her. I didn't think such a small woman could contain such a deafening roar. Soon a pharmacist was before me, rattling off the specificity of each elixir and pill.

“Quaff one teaspoon every 4 hours...

...Two pills the first day, one the next four, unless your a Capricorn on Thursday...

...Don't take if you are operating a forklift...

...Don't forklift if you are operating a tank...

...And that is all there is to it. I hope you feel better Mrs. Jasper!”

Bewildered, I proceeded to the exit and delivered the narcotics to my withering wife. I tried my best to impart the instructions to her and, in a semi-conscious state, she understood fairly well. We administered the first dose of antibiotics without a hitch. Attempting to deliver the Codeine proved more difficult.

The top was not only childproofed, it was adult proofed and possibly bear proofed as well. After a solid three minutes of prying, twisting, and biting, I successfully loosed the cap from it's mooring.

“Is it flavored? I asked them to add a flavor.”

“For five dollars, it better taste like prime rib.” I muttered. “It smells kind of spicy...”

An unsteady hand wielding a teaspoon of medicinal magic was soon in route for my wife's mouth. A squeamish face greeted the utensil and swallowed the medicine with reluctant force.

“Eeeeuuuggghhhhh!!!!! Get me some water!” Evidently the spicy watermelon didn't help much. So much for that investment.

I Feel My Temperature Rising

When I got home from work, It didn't seem as though Annie had moved more than a few inches from the spot I'd left her in.

“I threw up.” She greeted me with a dilapidated groan.

“So you're feeling better! Swell.” I changed out of my work clothes and tried to assess the situation. She was very warm, so I got her a cool washcloth and laid it on her head.

The rest of the evening, we had the thermostat set at a balmy 55^o. As we went to bed, Annie was wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt. I cloaked myself in a hoodie, sweatpants, socks, and mittens. About four hours later, all that was about to change.

I woke up at 2:30am in a pool of sweat. My mittens were strewn across the bed, the blankets were no where to be found, and I had no clue what was going on. But it was hot. Annie was barely awake and, upon hearing my rouse, she asked,

“I'm freezing. Can you turn up the heat?”

I begrudgingly obliged, peeling off layers as I stumbled through the house. I got back to bed, laid back, and heard,

“Can you get the thermometer? I think I have a fever.”

Another blind stumble to the bathroom found me back at the bed, thermometer in hand. A few moments later, the digital read out stated,

“99.4^o”

“Great. I'm glad we solved that mystery.” I returned to bed, pulled up the covers, and was met with a meek,

“Can you get me a box Kleenex?”

At 3am I was finally reunited with my REM cycle. The next morning was a slow one, but I made it to work. Annie had borrowed my car for the day, and about 11:30, she shows up at my office, bearing SUBWAY.

“This is for taking such good care of me. Thank you.”

And that makes it all worth it. I love my wife, even when she's feeling like death, and just as fun to be around.

About five minutes later, I get a text from the woman of my dreams:

“I almost just barfed in your car.”

That's what love is all about.

The Babies are Coming for You

This is a warning going out to anyone who considers themselves cool, tough, or bad-ass:

Beware of babies. They will destroy you.

Babies are dangerous. They appear to be cute, affectionate, little balls of fat and love, then when you've opened yourself up to them, they strike, like little toothless vipers. If you review the basic truths about babies, you will see that they are in fact out to take over the world:

Parasites

Baby, preparing to rip me to shreds

The definition of a parasite, according to www.dictionary.com, is an organism that lives on or in another organism, known as the host, from the body of which it obtains nutriment. That sound familiar, mommies of the world? I know that many women love to play host, throwing dinner parties and Bat Mitzvahs, but this is a host of a different color. Not only do they embed themselves into a woman's stomach, leaching nutrients, but they also practice mind control. Take this, from fledgling blogger Julia Jones:

“During early pregnancy, I noticed something different about myself.  I felt dumber.  Yes.  Dumber.  Like, all of a sudden, my brain decided to take a hike and I couldn't remember jack squat anymore.  I would be carrying on a typical conversation with my husband, stop talking mid sentence, stare at him blankly, then say, "I'm sorry, what was I talking about?"

Spacecadetjones.blogspot.com

This is an obvious case of mental manipulation on the part of this fetal fury that has since extricated itself from my friend Julia, only to wreak havoc on the known world. But this is not where the terror ends. Once they are out, it only gets worse.

Snuggle Vomiting

For those of you not familiar with the snuggle vomit, it is when a little “person” gets all cute, nuzzles against your neck like a cuddly baby raccoon, then proceeds to blow breast-fed chunks down your collar.

How can such a small entity create such a large amount of projectile waste? It ruins your shirt, dribbles down your neck, encrusts your hair, and cakes into in your ear. Then, when you think the little Linda Blair prodigy cannot spit up any further, they dig deep within themselves to call forth even greater reverse digestion fury.

This tactic is an obvious plot to destroy nice clothing, break our steely resolve, and make us go deaf in one ear from the venomous puke that spews forth from all infant infidels.

Baby Bums

Trendsetter

I was in a restaurant yesterday, and I saw a baby dressed in a pair of sweatpants, a shirt that he'd obviously thrown up on, an oversized jean jacket, and a stocking cap. He looked as if he'd been sleeping on the streets of Boston, living off of cheap whiskey and guilt. If I'd come into that restaurant dressed in such a fashion, unable to walk, drooling all over myself and babbling like a deranged person, they'd have thrown me out like Sunday's garbage. But this little man gets the royal treatment. They are allowed to gallivant around, naked as jaybirds, flaunting their superior status and lowering our expectations of what is appropriate and decent. These babies' flagrant disregard for human dignity and decency is leading to a moral failure among all humans. People say,

“If a baby's doing it, why can't I? I think these sweatpants go well with my jean jacket.”

They don't. This is another example of how baby mind control is sabotaging this great nation. Soon we'll all be wandering around in pajamas and puke stained t-shirts. Those of us who haven't already.

Steal Our Good American Jobs

Did you know that 100% of hard working, red blooded, American jobs are being taken by babies? It's true. The person working next to you, was a baby, not long ago. They are very methodical, very sly, but they are all vying for our honest wages. Soon, all of us will be living in abject poverty while babies are raking in our millions.

Maybe you don't believe it. Perhaps you think,

“It'll never happen to me. I have a specific skill set that a baby could never learn. They don't even have efficient use of their opposable thumbs!”

Babies are fiercely intelligent. They learn at rates much higher than that of a regular human being. Within the first few years, they learn to walk, talk, and destroy entire houses with vomit, poop, and toys. After that, they are coming for your job.

Reproduction Mind Control

mind control laser locked on - set to stun

The most feared thing about babies is there ability to gain mind control of any woman between 18 and 40 and turn them into babbling baby wanting slaves. They dote. They coo. They speak in bizarre languages that only babies and other women can understand. Worst of all, they get these women to buy pregnancy magazines.

This would be horrific enough by itself, if not for the fact that, once they've been brainwashed by these adorable little munchkins of doom, they begin pressuring their male counterparts. They hint, they wish, they blatantly ask when they get to start “a family of their own”. If they are above 35, they reference a mysterious biological clock and its incessant time keeping accuracy.

Keep women away from babies. As the host, a women is useless to the mind powers of our fetal foes. Take my wife for instance - she loves babies so much that she actually agreed to watch and assist a baby's birth. The whole thing. And she doesn't even like the sight of blood.

If a woman you know has any of the above symptoms, it's too late for you. Suck it up and make the best of your inevitable baby making.

You may think it is too late to save the world from this barrage of bouncing babies. But with the proper protection, you can avoid this horrible fate and remain the tough, cool, man you claim to be.

Just don't be surprised if, one day, you wake up and realize that your leather jacket is in mothballs, your motorcycle is in pieces, and your wife is in labor with your third child. It's then that you'll realize that they've gotten to you too.

Consider yourself warned.

I'm watching you...

If you haven't figured out by now, this posting is completely satirical. Please do not assume that any of the above statement are in earnest, or any way heartfelt.

Thanks to Monica Overberg and Gabe Goodrick for allowing the use their son Kurtis, in the above images.

(The babies made me write this disclaimer. Save yourself...)

Why I hate Banana...and the periodic table

Disclaimer:
this story contains graphic recounts of vomit. I personally find vomit funny. If you don't, read with caution, so as to avoid puking on your PC.

Continue at your own risk

In 2005 I had a rare stomach problem that caused my insides to form knots that'd make a Boy Scout proud and a sailor curse. I'd go into details, but that story isn't the one to be told here and now. This story is but a small piece of that larger tale. The imperative back story here is that I had been struck with an inability to keep anything down, from three course meal to three ounces of water, without regurgitating any attempt, accompanied by a putrid crimson bile. This all began on an international flight preceding a ten day tour of Scotland, so I spent two weeks hurling in the beautiful Scottish braes. The Scottish physicians deemed it a viral infection, and sent me on my way.

Upon return home, it was clear that something more than a viral infection was afoot. I still hadn't retained anything since the upheaval began. So the stateside doctors admitted me into the hospital, and began their battery of pokes and prods. They decided that something needed to be done to prevent the acid in my stomach from building up and causing me to vomit. Their solution? A torturous device known as the “NG tube”. A wiry RN who looked as if he'd been smoking unfiltered cigarettes since he was seven came in and started off in a playful yet slightly annoyed effeminate voice.

“I'm going to tell you right now, this is going to suck. I'm going to shove this little tube up your nose, where it will go down the back of your throat and into your stomach. You are going to want to gag, puke, and probably punch me in the balls. Just keep trying to swallow, and it'll be over before you know it.”

Fifteen minutes later, I'd been violated in a way that I've never known. Laying in my bed, involuntary tears rolled down my flushed cheeks as I struggled to regain my breath. I continued to repress the spasms of regurgitation, and finally calmed my body down enough to speak without another bout of dry heaving. For the next few days, I'd be a mouth breather, resigned to a dry throat and an awful snore that could wake the dead.

The panel of physicians decided some scans and X-ray's would be the best route to discerning the cause of these projections. The process was simple: In fifteen minutes, I drink a half gallon of Barium (periodic element #56) which is opaque when viewed in X-ray images. If they see where the Barium stops flowing, they gain further insight into what is stopping my digestion.

So there in the sparse hospital room filled with outdated magazines and sterility, I began my imbibing. The nurse presumptuously assumed that banana flavored Barium would be the flavor I preferred. Not that I wouldn't, but in retrospect, I would have liked a choice. Although I hadn't kept down more than a tablespoon of liquid in the last ten days, I managed to choke down almost a quart and a half of the lukewarm liquid of milkshake consistency. It's thick, chalky substance left a mucous like film on my palette and a sickening scent of banana in the room.

Twenty minutes later, the same husky voiced RN impatiently told me I'd drank enough. He hurriedly wheeled me to the X-ray room and lifted me onto the cold table. The X-ray technician sidled me back and forth on the slab, adjusted the gargantuan mechanism that loomed above my torso, then retreated to the safety of her control panel. The instant I lost sight of the technician, I also began to lose the ability to keep down my periodic elements. It was as if the viscous barium with which I'd engorged my stomach was now flowing back upstream, a tsunami of elemental fury, crashing toward my mouth. I choked out a few syllables that, if pieced back together and cleansed of dry heaving and tear filled gasps for oxygen, might resemble

“Nurse!”

Unfortunately my heaving cries for mercy fell on deaf ears in that cold medical facility. With no strength to drag myself to a dignified waste can, I instead opted to cock my head to the left, let out one last cry for salvation, and wretch my periodically charged puke in a manner that would put Linda Blair to shame.

Evidently the convulsions that gripped my body were not conducive to taking pictures of my innards, because the X-ray technician soon returned from her mysterious control panel with a look of irritation, which upon assessment of the situation, turned to absolute horror. As she stood there, uncertain of the protocol and not fully dedicated to keeping her own bile down, I stretched out a barium covered arm to indicate the target of my relief – a waste can in the corner of the room. Instead, the technician dove back into the safety of the control room, as it not only protected her from X-rays, but also the projectile elements spewing from my face. She soon returned better equipped for the situation.

She hurried to me with caution and a small, pink, kidney shaped dish. Thrusting it into my hands, the technician beamed as she began to comfort me

“It's Ok honey, just throw up in...”

She was not afforded the opportunity to finish her sentence, because before she could utter another word, another round of bile infused barium summoned itself from the depth of my emaciated abdomen and forced itself upon the world. I directed the wrath towards the dish, and watched in helpless dismay as the vomit rushed into the kidney dish with such force that it immediately sprayed back out in a fan on all sides of me. The caution that the woman took in delivering the dish was proven vain as the final contents of my stomach came to rest on her flowery smock.

My stomach had completed its revolt against the barium, and was proven victorious. The carnage that laid before me was overwhelming. My backless medical gown was soaked in creamy gastro-barium. My wheelchair was spackled in it. A small portion of the upheaval had taken an alternate route to freedom – following the NG tube through my nasal passages and out my left nostril. It is no understatement to say that I had puked everywhere.

Even in the midst of that exhausting exercise in abdominal rebellion, I could see an element of humor in it all. They eventually got me cleaned up, preformed surgery, and sent me on my way. The blockage was successfully removed, and I have remained relatively healthy since. But I always laugh about the final tableau that is in my mind. Covered in my own vomit, crying tears of relief while a beleaguered nurse dab at me in vain with a damp washcloth.

The image is so pitiful, who wouldn't crack a smile? There must be an inherent reason that bananas are so funny...