Barf-tacular Glory

Sorely disappointed.

This week, Andy got sick. Like, puking outside on the street adding chunks to slush piles while at work kind of sick. YES!! I can now finally don my cute little nurse outfit and he can't run away from me (like he did last year when he lived in Victoria - wouldn't let me visit - I think because he didn't want me to see him looking all cute and ugly). So, being the great little wife I am, I made him chicken soup, patted his head, listened to him whine, fed him ginger ale, and waited for my chance, for my duty, for my pending saint-like status.

Except, the bastard DIDN'T PUKE. Nope. Not a drop. I had buckets mysteriously planted all over the house, and kept one ear open all night. Part of the night I was awake, planning a brilliant post about how being a wife has taken on a whole new meaning. You know, like the bar is now raised to the cleaning up puke level. I had the whole thing figured out, kinda like a scene in a movie, with me emptying the buckets in slow motion, maybe in soft focus, with Enya playing in the background. I would have written a freaking halo into the piece. I saw people placing their hands over their hearts, shaking their heads, saying, "That Andy has the most selfless, sacrificial wife I've EVER seen."

But now all I can say is I made him some soup. Whoop-edy-fricken'-doo! Where's the PUKE? The CHUNKS? The STENCH? The GAGGING? I wanted buckets and buckets of the stuff. It would have been disgusting and brilliant.

Oh well, one can only hope for next time.