Today I think I'm starting a new segment of Mental Poo entitled:
The Shit I Learn
I came up with this brilliant fucking idea while I was being thrown up on for the second time yesterday.
Normally, if I was being vomited upon by an 18-year old college chick I wouldn't mind...
...because even though my dick might smell like old hot dogs afterwards...
...a blow job is still a blow job.
Now I want a hot dog.
And a blow job.
OMG OMG OMG now I want a blow job while I'm eating a hot dog.
Got greedy there for a second.
My 8 year old daughter had the audacity to get sick yesterday, forcing me to stay home from work.
When I say 'forcing me to stay home' I mean 'gleefully going back to bed.'
So, without further ado....
The Shit I Learn From Staying Home with a Sick Kid
1) My boss has no idea what I do
I have no sick days at work. If I want to take a sick day, I have to use vacation time.
Since this policy sucks more balls than the females on 'The Bachelor,' I sent the following email:
My daughter woke up with a fever this morning and a croupy cough. My wife has a mandatory meeting to attend and can't call in.
I have a system set up here so I can log into the VPN and run my tests on my laptop there via remote desktop. However, I don't have corporate email.
Call me at my home number if you need me.
Sounds good. Hope she feels better.
I'll work from home, then.
Here's the thing:
I have not a single fucking clue how to work from home.
Instead, I played Madden '09 on my XBox all day.
Which leads me to:
2) Madden '09 on XBox is fucking hard
Jesus H. Christ.
Madden, you fat fuck, think you could have made this any fucking harder for me?
Tap this back then forward...switch that...
...move the right stick down to call blitz...left bumper to call a lineman audible...
....grab your ankle and stick your pinky toe in your ass...Frankie says 'relax, don't do it'...
Slipped into 'college experimentation mode' there for a second.
All I want to do is throw the fucking football to THAT GUY...THAT FUCKING GUY RIGHT THERE...
...and I'm sitting here sweating and now my fingers are all gnarled and curled up like Matthew Broderick going into fetal position when Sarah Jessica Parker tells him she wants sex.
Matthew: "Please...Please no...I'll be good...I promise..."
The last time my fucking wrists hurt this much was when I first realized that I could watch Cinemax late night On-Demand just because I got the channel.
That was a tiring marathon, my friends.
I'm still dehydrated from it.
3) My Socks are Vomit Magnets
Me: "Hi honey...how are you feeling?"
She threw up all over her floor and I just stepped in it.
That's just super fucking awesome.
So - off come the bed sheets and the comforter because she threw up all over that shit FIRST and throw it in the laundry.
Put new bedsheets on. Get her some water.
Me: "Okay. Do you need anything else before I.."
* stunned silence *
Me: "Excellent! You managed to get my new socks AND my jeans on that one! Tally ho!"
I think she'll spend the rest of the day sitting in the tub.
I mean...it's either I keep washing my fucking socks all day...
...or risk her getting hypothermia sitting in water for 8 hours.
Sometimes, being a parent means making the tough decisions.
4) The Magic Doctor Window
So, after vomit #2, I called the doctor and scheduled an appointment.
For those parents out there, you know what's coming next...
...the 'car repair phenomenon.'
Before going to the Doctor:
Daughter (130-degree fever): "COUGHHHHH. WHHEEZ! VOMIT!! COUGGH!!"
At Doctor's office:
Daughter (now dancing): "I feel pretty! Oh so pretty! I feel pretty..and witty..and bright!"
Doctor: "Um...she's fine. You're a fucking moron. That'll be a $15 co-pay."
In Car Leaving Doctor's Office:
Me: "Well...that was a wasted tri.."
Daughter vomits all over car.
Daughter: "You killed your mother! You left her alone to die! Bastard! "
Maybe I shouldn't let her watch 'The Exorcist.'
5) I Shouldn't Touch Laundry
Because of the vomitrama going on, I spent most of the day doing fucking laundry when I wasn't playing XBox...
...working from home.
* waves at boss
My wife tells me this weekly:
"Don't touch the laundry."
Actually, it's more like:
"Don't touch the _____ ."
And she pretty much puts anything she wants in that blank spot.
It's like 'Mad Libs'...but primarily about a distinct lack of sexytime.
Thank God for Cinemax.
So...I look in front of the dryer and there's a basket full of kid's clothes.
The dryer is full of other finished kid's closed so I pull them out...throw them in the basket...
...then bring the basket upstairs and put the kid's clothes away.
I'll be filling in that blank tonight!
That doesn't really make any sense.
Then my wife got home.
Me (winking sexy): "Hey. I also put the kid's clothes away today."
Wife: "Um...you know there's more laundry of theirs to do, right? What's wrong with your eye?"
* winking stops
Me: "No there isn't more laundry. I put it all away."
Wife: "Are you kidding me? The laundry in the basket was dirty!"
Me: "You know...I thought the socks looked really really goddamn filthy."
Wife: "And you put them away anyway?"
Me: "Yes. Yes I did."
Karma hates me.
Fuck you, Earl.
So then I had to listen to her as she went through all the clothes that I put away - which included underwear - and try to figure out which ones were the dirty ones.
My sexy winking has now turned into a goddamn tic.
For me - figuring out which underwear is dirty is easy.
Smell like shit or ass sweat = dirty.
Stands up on it's own = dirty and...um...you will probably want to wash your hands really really good now.
JUST TWO THINGS to figure it all out.
Got it Madden?