Rough Week

When I was first laid off I received a ton of sympathy from friends and family members.  People genuinely felt bad for me, and there were a number of people who offered to help “in any way they could.”  If there was any positive that came out of me losing my job it was that I realized I had a number of very good friends and a very understanding and loving family. 

However, time does seem to change things, and as my stint as an unemployed guy dragged on, sympathy turned to envy.  Now that’s not to say that anyone WANTS to be unemployed, it’s actually not a lot of fun, but certainly hanging around the house in sweats, running a few errands, sending silly e-mails to pals and occasionally posting a blog sounds a whole lot more fun than getting up and jumping into the rat-race 50 weeks a year.  I think it’s a classic case of “the grass is greener on the other side.”  Suddenly a few of my friends started looking at my lot in life as being not too bad.  Send the wife out to work, send the kids to school, and hang out.  What’s not to like, right?

Let’s put it this way, when I’m with my friends on a Sunday night and they start bemoaning the fact that they have to get up and go to work on Monday morning, I don’t say anything.  I know silence is my best chance of avoiding a left hook to the head.

The problem of course is that when the shit is hitting the fan at home, I have no escape.  My home is my office (even if I’m just using that “office” to send silly e-mails and post mildly amusing blogs).  I don’t think I’m the only guy who has considered his office a “safe haven.”  I think most guys have actually looked forward to going to work to get away from the chaos that is erupting from home.  However that is not an option with me.

Take last week for example.  My wife is home (I’ve mentioned her temporary . . . well let’s hope it’s temporary . . . unemployment status) and sick.  As in can’t get out of bed sick.  As in I need to drive her to the doctor’s office so that he can prescribe drugs kind of sick.  And by the way, I hate the doctor’s office.  The doctor’s office is where healthy people go to get sick.  I feel the need to scrub down with boiling hot water and industrial strength cleaning products after sitting in the doctor’s waiting room.  I would literally go into a public restroom and lick the toilet before reaching for a magazine at the doctor’s office. 

Anyway my wife is home sick all last week.  I made her at least a dozen cups of tea, two bowls of chicken noodle soup (okay I bought the chicken noodle soup), ran to the grocery store once to buy different boxes of Kleenex (after she complained that we didn’t have the lotion-based tissue), and drew her two baths.

Then came my youngest son’s flu.  I knew he was sick when he broke out with a 101 fever and couldn’t get out of bed.  He required Gatorade, popsicles, constant charging of his iTouch, and twice-a-day medicine . . . . which he only threw up once.  Between trips to and from the kitchen for he and my wife I must have run up and down our stairs 220 times.  I actually have stopped working out.  What’s the point?  I’m basically on a nonstop stair master.

Before that came the Blizzard of 2011 which dumped 20.2 inches of snow in Chicago, and kept both children home from school for two days.  I shoveled four times.  Built one gigantic snow fort.  Lost the dog in a four foot high snow drift which he tried to clear by jumping over it . . . . and yes, it’s official, he is in fact the world’s stupidest dog . . . . and built three fires in the fire place for my wife who was able to leave the bedroom for the couch.

Then came my oldest son’s stomach flu.  I knew he was sick when he went to bed early complaining of stomach cramps.  More to the point, I knew he was sick when I was lying in bed next to him rubbing his back and he turned and threw up all over me.  Literally covered me from head to toe in vomit.  Human waste all over me.

My wife, who by now was feeling somewhat better, came running only to have to stop before actually entering my son’s room for fear of throwing up herself, as she started gagging and coughing.  You see, my wife’s kryptonite is vomit.  My kryptonite is technology.  I think most men would agree that babies are their kryptonite.  And I think I’m safe in saying that most women would agree that oral sex is their kryptonite.  But my wife just can’t be ANYWHERE NEAR vomit.  Which means I had to clean off my son, myself, his bed and his carpeting, all of which were covered in a six-piece chicken McNugget happy meal.  And on a side note, McDonald’s takes a lot of heat for not making their McNuggets with “100% white meat chicken,” and I don’t know whether that’s true or not, but I can say with a fair amount of certainty that they make their French fries with real potatoes.  I can also say with a fair amount of certainty that small, regurgitated pieces of potatoes are NOT easy to get out of carpeting.

There was nothing good about being home last week…and it’s not getting any better.  Both boys were home from school once again today, although my youngest has apparently recovered enough to drive everyone in the house crazy.  I may have to go out and get a job after this is over.  I just don’t know if I can take being home anymore.