18 November 2009

Heave-ho!

[If you're feeling urpish or are easily impressionable, read on at your own risk.]

Firstly, we'd just finished supper ten minutes prior to the incident.

Secondly, I was doing some laundry for a neighbor who's on post-partum bed rest, and just happened to be dealing with a particularly disturbing towel. (Don't judge.)

Thirdly, the dog was four feet away. Maybe three. He's really old and he really smells.

Fourthly, the dog huked up a Horrible Something, three and half feet away from me. Maybe two and a half. Something that was never intended by Mother Nature to project from that end of a dog. (TMI already, or should I be more descriptive?) I screamed and opened the back door and out ran the dog, to huke some more, alone, in the cold.

Fifthly, I started to heave. Hard. So I ran. I ran to the bathroom to oust its present occupant and grab the Pine-Sol so I could (a) sniff it, and (b) gather my courage to deal with the Horrible Something.

Sixthly, the former occupant of the bathroom sympathized when I said the word "awful," responding tenderly, "Oh, I believe it was awful . . . ," and before he could finish his sentence I had a terrible vision of the the Horrible Something my dog ate while hiking with said former bathroom occupant, earlier in the day. "No more words!" I said, and heaved.

There you have them, half a dozen reasons why:

—Why I put my head in a waste basket and kept it there for almost ten full minutes, heaving.

—Why I called the s.f.o.b.* on the intercom and begged him to do the wretched clean-up job for me, since I couldn't take my head out of the waste basket.

—Why I felt a little miffed that the s.f.o.b.* let the dog eat the Horrible Something in the first place. (It was a passing irrational grudge. Don't tell me you wouldn't have held it for a second too.)

—Why I sequestered myself in the library (with my head still in the waste basket) until I knew s.f.o.b.* had finished the dreadful job and it was safe to come out.

—Why I suddenly found myself on the floor, my head still in the waste basket, heaving and gagging, and laughing (my guts out, nearly) at the ridiculousness of the situation.

—Why I decided I needed my little jar of Vicks Vaporub to sniff, but dreaded walking past the huked-on landing to go downstairs for it.

—Why I found the only somewhat distractingly fragrant item in the library—an Aloe chapstick—and practically shoved it up my nose (to stop me from heaving).

—Why my stomach really, really hurts!

—Why I love my s.f.o.b.* for doing the dirty work tonight.


*said former occupant of the bathroom

6 comments:

Mary said...

Oh my heavens--I believe I would have done the same. It doesn't take much to get me heaving and Johnny often rescues me.

My sometimes successful trick is that I think hard about ice cubes and lime wedges, but Vics Vaporub would probably do the trick too!

Sister Pottymouth said...

That is awful! But I'm still laughing...does that make me a woman without compassion?

Lois said...

I'm surprised that Sister Pottymouth didn't make her own suggestion as to what "S.F.O.B." should stand for.

I'm secretly hoping that the dog ate and barfed up a bat.

TonyB said...

Not the most pleasant of experiences, but really funny writing, I can assure you.

Heidi said...

thank heavens it was a s.f.o.b. and not an f.s.o.b. :)

Jamie said...

great writing.
takes me back to prego days when mere commercials or Rich's breath could make me huke. profusely. for 30 weeks straight.

people said it would all be a warm fuzzy distant memory someday and i said "NEVER!" but they were right. huking is funny in retrospect. and husbands are heroes.