I'll Be Home, Hacking Up a Lung, For Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa

I'll Be Home, Hacking Up a Lung, For Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa

I used to consider myself a healthy person. Sure, I’d come down with a cold every now and then, but after a day or so I’d be back in reasonably good shape. This holiday season, all that has changed, as I’ve been hit with the grossest, slimiest, achiest, wheeziest, juiciest bout of god-knows-what I’ve ever seen. I’m like the Seven Dwarfs (Or should I say Seven Little People? Oh great, now I’m an insensitive asshole too) all rolled into one giant hacking mess. Take a look. 


I snarl at young children, sneer at smiley baristas, and snap at the elderly folks who make the mistake of smiling at me in my building’s elevator. Add to that a case of PMS with cravings so severe that I'm literally sucking popcorn out of the bag with my face and snorting chocolate through my one clear nostril and you have my current existence.



I am as dumb as shit these days. Actually, I’m pretty sure shit is smarter. I don’t have enough brainpower to work, think, microwave a semi-toxic, chemical-laden dinner for my family, or buy the humidifier that I am absolutely convinced will cure me of any and all of my afflictions. Why does one Ace Hardware Store need to sell 35 different models of humidifiers anyway?


For weeks, I have tried just about everything humanly possible to exorcise the alien, fungus, virus, or whatever you want to call it that has taken up residence in my chest. Syrups, rubs, pills, drips, drops, séances, massages, eucalyptus leaves: I have tried them all. And nothing works, which I guess pretty much makes me a real doctor. Actually, I called my doctor. His nurse said,

“Call me back on Friday if you’re still coughing.”

Friday: “Hi nurse, it’s Wendy. I’m still coughing.”

Her response: “There’s nothing we can do. It’s Friday.”

Are you f’n kidding me?


I now walk around with a tissue glued to the lower half of my face. I don’t have to wax my mustache anymore. I simply glue a piece of toilet paper (who has time to buy Kleenex?) to my nose and it takes care of everything: the fuzz I’m too lazy to remove and the snot that flows like buttah from my red, swollen schnoz all morning, noon, and night.


Me, Happy

Even with a case of consumption, I’ve found happiness here and there throughout the holiday season. I enjoy when my daughter tucks all of her blankies around my achy body before heading off to school, when another 16 and Pregnant marathon comes on, or when hubby and I make good on the little competition I got myself into seven days ago to see if we could have sex three times in one week.

Yep, sex three times in one week, even with a cough so scary I could, and perhaps should, be arrested for public endangerment. Even with a stomach bug so bad that goo was shooting out of every orifice of my body. You didn't think these teeny tiny obstacles would prevent me from winning an immature and slightly absurd sex challenge against a few other women, did you? What kind of gal do you think I am?


Bashful is how I feel now that I’ve told you that, despite being sick as a dog, I had sex three times in a week simply because I bet some pals I could do it.


Apparently, 39 is the new 6 months. I can barely go three hours without my body begging for some of the sleep it missed during the night when I was hacking up a lung. So I lie down. And can you guess what happens? More f’n hacking.

So there you have it. If you’re wondering why there’s no holiday card from me this year it’s because my hair looks like a toxic landfill, my muffin tops overfloweth, I’m permanently hunched over from all the coughing spells, and I refuse to wear anything other than workout clothes, which is pretty funny since I haven’t stepped inside a gym for months and my ass has turned to holiday mashed potatoes – again.

Oops, gotta go… it’s time to change the toilet paper mustache. And watch the movie Beaches, because I’ve convinced myself that I’m the Barbara Hershey character and my time has come. May your holidays be a lot healthier and a lot less melodramatic, neurotic, and mucus-filled than mine.

Here's the article about the sex competition: Sexy Time: Are You Mom Enough for this Challenge

If you like this post, come join me on Facebook, where we talk about mucus, sex and anything else that will make our families blush.


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