Deb Wore Latex Gloves During Clean-Up

The tide of vomit has come in.

The Friday after Thanksgiving Allie puked at her Grandma and Grandpa's house.

Monday night was Julia's turn. Her body decided not to hold on to the Spongebob shaped mac & cheese she had for dinner. Debbie's T-shirt did not read, "Stinky Bile Soaked Bits of Cartoon Shaped Pasta Repository" but that's what it wound up becoming.

I stayed home Tuesday with Julia. She was in a pretty good mood all day which meant I got a lot done. Julia got a post puke scrub down. We did a little Christmas shopping. I drained the fuel out of the mower and prepared the snowblower for duty. Five loads of laundry were processed through our mudroom laundromat.

Laundry is a thankless job. Not that it's all that hard (the machines do most of the work). However it's the kind of job where the results of your labor are tucked away in a drawer. It's nothing like painting a room or even mowing the lawn. You don't walk into the house after work and immediately notice that your underwear once again smells like Tide with bleach alternative. It's only when you're underwear drawer is empty that you consider the time and labor that goes into washing clothes.

Debbie does the laundry at our house. I know I've thanked her. It probably averages around once a year that I notice I no longer need to choose a shirt by sniffing it. That's when I say something like, "Thanks for taking care of the laundry, Deb." That's the best I can do. I suppose by the time our tenth anniversary rolls around I could get her a plaque or something. I'm not being sarcastic. I'm genuinely grateful I don't have to sort everyone's socks. I'm just not sure about the appropriate gesture. I suppose taking over the laundry chores more often would be best. Of course, if Deb doesn't reciprocate by doing more in the kitchen then I'll have to get all passive aggressive on her ass.

Actually, I won't be picking on my wife (at least not in the near future). She's extremely stressed at work. It's getting to the point where there may need to be some kind of intervention. I don't care what your job is, you don't deserve an ulcer because of it.

If I'm going to pick on anyone it'll be Dwayne.

Dwayne has had two blog posts in the same month. I'm suspicious.

He's dying.

I just know it. Especially after he wrote about all the stuff he's grateful for. If that's not a dying man's blog post I don't know what is.

I should have called him more often. Now I won't have the chance.

I wonder if his Mom will make beer bread for after the funeral? It was always his favorite. He would have liked that. I'll have to ask her for the recipe. I wonder if we should take Julia? I'm pretty sure Lourdes will be invited. If she's there I don't see why we can't take Julia. Pallbearer? Maybe. I'd be honored. I just wish he'd let me know he was going to do this, though. Those caskets can be freakin' heavy depending on the who else you've got sharing the load. He's always had a solid build not to mention the fact the weight of his body hair alone is probably enough to put me in a truss. I wonder if Raquel would like to meet this guy I know from work?

You can send your condolences directly to Dwayne by leaving a comment on his blog.

But if you're going to the trouble, you may want to send a few words of encouragement to Deb via her blog. Dwayne's gone. Deb's alive and the one who could really use a boost right about now.