Surviving Food Poisoning - Ugh
Wednesday - February 17, 2010
Nothing like a bout with food poisoning to make a person feel grateful to… not have food poisoning most of the time. Ugh. The last two days have been miserable, so naturally I have no column prepared and you will forgive me if I take a little time to whine.
Here is my advice to every reader out there. Do not eat fish cake that feels a little slimy. Never, ever, ever. If you somehow get some in your mouth, do not swallow. Doesn’t matter how gross it would look or that you are in a public place - spit it out! The alternative is even more gross, if you know what I mean.
Do not eat slimy fish cake when your hubby/partner/significant other is out of town. Not only is there no one to wipe the sweat off your brow, listen to you moan and bring you a bowl to upchuck into, it means there is only one person available to get the kid to and from school. That’s right. You will haul your sick, sweaty, nauseated self out of bed at 5:30 in the morning, throw some canned soup into the micro and call it breakfast, and mash together peanut butter and jelly between pieces of bread and call it lunch. Then you will drive, still in your pajamas, fighting sickness all the way, and send up a prayer of thanks when you make it home without messing up the car. Then you will spend the day in bed or next to the toilet or in the shower, until it’s time to pick up the kid in the afternoon.
You will thank your lucky stars you taught your child a few basic survival skills, like making himself a sandwich for dinner and topping it off with two candy bars. Who cares if he skips the veggies? As long as he does-n’t interrupt your suffering, he can eat whatever the heck he wants. And he can go to bed whenever he wants. And piano practice? Yeah, OK, take a break. Mom really doesn’t care. I have to say the dear boy tried to help. He loaded the dishwasher and turned it on. He asked me if I needed anything. Such a sweetie. Mom’s grateful. Now let me sleep.
The second day was a little better. I actually put on jeans before the morning drive. This way I would not be publicly humiliated if I got stopped by a cop and had to step out of the car. “Look, Mom, what’s that lady wearing? Striped pajama bottoms?”
And dinner was better, too. I was still too deflated to cook, but Room Service in Paradise is a dear, dear friend. My son, who never complained and actually was quite concerned throughout my ordeal, was relieved. I think he now realizes the need to expand his cooking repertoire. He also knows that Mom turns into a raving (rhymes with witch) when she’s huddled over the commode.
So thank you for putting up with my sad story. Hey, if Jerry Seinfeld can get away with a whole darn TV series about nothing, surely I get a pass for my one little column.
Now excuse me, I need to crawl back into bed and catch a few more zzzs. Where’s that bowl?
E-mail this story | Print this page | Comments (0) | Archive | RSS Comments (0) |
Most Recent Comment(s):