Last night I was enjoying Spinach and Artichoke veggie chips with Trader Joe’s hummus. For some reason I was hell-bent on finishing the tub of it, which had been in the fridge for a while and was close to being done. Recognizing the old “Might as well finish it up, it’s almost done” logic as one of my many poor pre-diet habits I resolved to stop eating the stuff and put the remainder away for another day.

This morning at about 6:15 I woke for no obvious reason. Couldn’t get comfortable to go back to sleep. Realizing I had to go to the bathroom really badly and it wasn’t gonna be pleasant, I grabbed the laptop and headed in, resolving to distract myself from the suffering with one of the nifty video podcasts from my previous post. It wasn’t long before I snapped the lid shut to just wait it out, streaming sweat and grateful for the house fan’s cool air on my skin. At this point I realized it as going to get worse before it got better.

I got cleaned up as best I could, staggered out and woke my wife from just outside the bedroom door, in front of the hallway bathroom. “Honey, I have food poisoning. You’re going to need to do everything [to get our son to school] this morning. I’m just waiting to throw up. Then, without ANY warning, no salivation, no nothing, the wait was over. I was standing outside the bathroom door and I still couldn’t make it into the bathroom. In fact, the toilet was the only thing in the bathroom that didn’t get it.

Happily, I felt better afterwards, cleaned up the mess and took a little shower. I even ended up dropping Grey off at school and dropping by Home Depot for some primer for the new drywall around the master bathroom shower that FINALLY got installed (yay!). But shortly after I returned I started feeling poorly again, and went to bed. Since then, it’s been periodic unfortunate bathroom visits, mild nausea, and the sweats if I try to do anything useful. Bleah.

The worst part of all this is this: My wife is going to be insufferable. She and I are always in contention about throwing food away. She’s very quick to chuck good food: “That’s been in the freezer for a year, it’s probably bad.” And since my mom and grandmother have a famous history of hanging onto foodstuffs for comical durations, sometimes decades, my opinion about whether something is still good or not has no merit. And this little event will be the ammunition she’ll use for decades to come. And there’s no way to counter the argument.

I think I need to excuse myself again.