Last night, as I was leaning over the toilet bowl to press the flush button, my brand new earrings, not one but two, fell into the loo.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I shouted angrily.
“What’s wrong Kooky?” Mr Smarts asked, reluctant to leave the comfort of the sofa.
“I’ve dropped my fabulous new earrings in the loo,” I explained, ready to flush.
“Move away from the button Kooky,” Mr Smarts warned. “You’ll block the system.”
“What, with two little earrings,” I said rolling my eyes.
“If they’re the earrings you were just wearing, then they’re not that little,” Mr Smarts sighed.
“Well, dear Mr Smarts, would you get them out for me?” I asked hopefully.
“No!” was his abrupt reply.
“But…” I begged.
“Kooky, how many times have I had to pull out toilet rolls, tissue boxes and once, even your hairbrush?” Mr Smarts asked tersely.
“Fine! I’ll do it myself then!” I said grumpily.
So mumbling and grumbling about the injustice of it all, I grabbed a plastic bag from a well-known supermarket chain and retrieved the earrings.
“No way!” I shouted in horror as something wet ran down my arm.
Mr Smarts peered around the doorway, an amused expression on his face.
“I have pee running down my arm,” I cried in disbelief. “The frigging bag has a frigging hole in it! Again!” I’m sure I heard Mr Smarts snort.
“I don’t know why you’re so upset?” he said. “When the kids were little, you were always covered in vomit and pooh. In fact, you actually ate Pippa’s vomit once. Compared to that, this is nothing.”
I looked at Mr Smarts with utter disdain and calmly shut the door, leaving him on the other side. He was right though, in the past there had been times when I was completely covered from head to foot in all things disgusting. So I feel the need to share with you, one really disastrous day which went like this;
Years ago, Will kept breaking out in massive welts. Nobody could figure out why so I made an appointment with a specialist. The morning of the appointment I woke feeling rather green, but as we had waited months for the appointment, I was loathe to cancel it.
Mr Smarts was working from home that day and when I complained that I wasn’t feeling the best he said, “Oh Kooky, it will probably blow over. I think you should still take him. I would, but I have get this blah blah project finished.”
I remember thinking at the time, “What a load of bs#$%! What blah blah project?” as the kids and I drove off into the hellish, city traffic.
By the time we arrived I needed to do something urgently about the gurgling in my stomach that threatened to explode, with force, up my esophagus and out my mouth. Unfortunately, the restrooms were off the waiting room so everyone would have heard me. Vomiting, to me, is a private matter because sometimes I can’t be sure if it’s just going to be vomit or something else as well.
Barely daring to talk I bravely sat through the testing. Probably because of my glossy, green, sheen, not to mention the bead of sweat plastered across my forehead, the kind doctor asked if she could help me.
“If I could have a plastic bag for the trip home I would really appreciate it,” I whispered feeling horrendously ill.
So with the bag within arm’s reach we started home again. A mere 100 meters down the road I had to stop and the bag was put to good use.
“Wow look at her go,” Will said impressed. “She’s like a hose, it just keeps coming and coming.”
Ignoring him, I gratefully revelled in the fact that I had rid myself of everything I had eaten in the past two weeks. That is, until I felt something warm seeping through my jeans. I couldn’t believe it, the frigging bag had a hole in it. Warm, sticky, disgusting vomit was flowing “like lava” all over me. There was nothing left for me to do but keep on driving.
“How did it go?” Mr Smarts asked innocently as I walked through the door. Then stared as vomit dripped onto the floor boards. Unfortunately it hadn’t just been that one time but twice more, and of course, I had vomit in my hair.
“Look at Mum!” Will exclaimed. “She kept on spewing and spewing. We didn’t think she was ever going to stop. She was like a vomit machine.”
I glared at them and shuffled off to the bathroom, shutting the door forcefully behind me.
Mr Smarts did clean the car from top to bottom. I guess that explains the retching noises I could hear while I was trying to sleep.
Please feel free to tell me you’re vomit stories or any stories where a plastic shopping bag has let you down profusely.