Pregnant Women Just Gotta Deal

 

A local father-to-be is honored for the hard work he did around the house on Saturday, while his wife “just puked all day”.

Jon Rhett goes on to say, “I mean, the dishes weren’t going to do themselves, right? Some of the bowls had cereal stuck on them so they were very hard to wash. I learned you have to let those soak because I cut myself on a sharp Frosted Flake that had adhered to the side of the bowl.” He then held up his middle finger which was indeed bandaged.

It wasn’t just the dishes that he helped with, though. Jon also vacuumed the living room (“I ate the cereal in there; I dropped a couple pieces”) and also used a hand towel to wipe off the sink in the bathroom. “After I did that, I threw it on the bathroom floor and did a little foot mopping. My wife spends almost three hours a day, every day, in here doing the Technicolor yawn. You’d think she would have gotten all of the ick off the floor, at least. But no, there was still a spot or two behind the toilet. Or maybe just a misfire from the old piss-cannon. Either way, our bathroom hasn’t looked this good in months,” he said. “I just threw the hand towel I used on the floor back up on the rack. Didn’t want to make extra laundry.”

The two are expecting their first child in a few months. Jon said his wife, Sega, claims to be suffering from “hyperemesis gravitadarum” almost since the day she got pregnant. “Oh, sure I Googled it,” he relates. “And of course some pregnant ladies throw up a lot. But that’s usually only for the first couple of months. My wife seems to really be drawing this out—I’m starting to think it’s intentional so she can get out of housework. I mean, I get it, though. Sometimes my stomach is a little upset. Every single Saturday morning, I feel exactly the same way. I’m hungover after Friday nights with my bros. But as you can clearly see, I was still able to do some housework even though I didn’t feel well. It really is just mind over matter. Take some Pepto, am I right? Some preggos run marathons clear up until their ninth month, I read somewhere. We all just gotta deal.”

When asked if he attends obstetrician appointments with his wife, Jon laughingly shook his head. “The last time we went together, we took my new pickup. Do you know how hard it is to clean puke out of floor mats? She had to buy me new ones because even though she used toothpicks on the grooves, some things just don’t come out. It still smells in there.”

One of Jon’s bros, Charlie Pratt, submitted his name and a small story describing his momentous aid and personal sacrifice to an online contest on “Everyday Husbands”, a small Facebook group of newly married men. When the admins of Everyday Husbands called Jon to let him know he won the prize (limo service to a local steakhouse and $100 gift card to the restaurant), no one was more surprised than his wife.

Jon said, “It’s almost as if she wasn’t excited that I won something.” When asked when he planned on using the winning limo ride and dinner prize with her, he told our reporter, “You know, I’m not really sure she’s going to be up for going out to dinner anytime soon. I’ll probably invite my friend Charlie from the group; his wife is expecting triplets and I imagine he’s probably going stir crazy,” he chuckled. “We could both use a night out from our respective ball-and-chains. Besides, this is a treat for my wife too. Now she won’t have to make me dinner whatever night Charlie and I decide to go. Plus she’d probably throw it up anyway. And now she won’t have to do dishes that night either.”

We tried to reach Jon’s wife for comment on his prize, but our calls were not returned.

Poopwa Foley's Series of Unfortunate Hangry Injuries

I blame the enormous bruise on my arm on a coworker.

I listened to him when he suggested getting a full body examination at the dermatologist. There are three good reasons I should. One, I had never had one in the past. Two, I have extremely fair Irish skin. Three, I have had a mole on my back for years that needs to be checked, and a pink dot on my temple that had been burned off in the past.

I called to make the appointment for the full body scan but they had nothing available because they were booked for the next six months for the full body scan. I start to make the appointment for just checking the one, then, when she interrupted, “Hey, wait a minute! Here’s a full body scan appointment for two days from now because someone cancelled. Do you want that?”

It’s a sign. I took the appointment.

At the dermatologists, she thoroughly looked all over my body, up and down unshaven legs and pale arms. She looked like a giant bug with her lit up magnifying monocle.

who doesn't love snapchat?

I have moles of every shape, size, and color on my back, and I’m concerned about every one of them. She looked at them carefully but pronounced them all ok. However, that pink dot on my temple? She numbed it for a biopsy. “I don’t like this one. Don’t get worried, I’m not saying it’s basal cell carcinoma…,” she trails off. She and the assistant then took turns explaining to me that if caught quick enough basal cell carcinoma is not deadly.

Long story not made shorter, it was basal cell carcinoma. A week later, I found myself flat on a table getting that sucker cut out. (editor’s note: there are clear margins and it’s ok now.)

I stayed at work even though I looked like this and no one even said anything.

At home that night, I have a ton of groceries in the house but plan on milking the painful stitches in my face for every bit of non-cooking pity I can get. Joe fell neatly into my trap and agreed, then said the words every woman longs to hear. “Why don’t you call Portillo’s?”

Why don’t I indeed? I couldn’t call fast enough and Joe left to pick it up.

Question: If you’re picking up an order to bring home, don’t you normally look in the bag prior to leaving the restaurant? Answer: Yes, you do. Every time. Apparently my romper wearing husband didn’t get that memo.

he's all mine.

Through my pain, I managed to athletically leap off the chair and open the bag when he gets home. At the bottom of the bag, there are two beef sandwiches and two tiny fries. Not bags of fries. Not orders of fries. Just two short individual fries.

I looked at Joe. “This is not what I meant when I ordered two small fries.”

He looked in the bag too, and says, “Well, that’s okay. We don’t really need them, do we?”

We’ve been married for ten years and he doesn’t even know me.

“Well, no, we don’t need them,” I said. “But I want them. We paid for them.” I NEED them. I seethed internally. I just had surgery for crying out loud and deserve some poor poor baby fries.

“But we had a $5 coupon,” he said. “It’s not like we paid for them, not really.” There’s no fight in his eyes, though.

The voice that issued from my throat sounds only vaguely like mine. “I’m calling the manager and going back to get the fries.” Joe knows he has been beaten. He’s crestfallen because he’s not going to get to eat that sandwich until we have the complete meal we paid for.

I spoke to a lovely manager who was suitably upset that we didn’t get our order and if we came back she’d have the fries ready. 

Joe offered to go back, but I told him I’d go. I didn’t want to admit I didn’t want him to go because what if he didn’t check the bag AGAIN and I end up with no post-surgery fries? Again?

A guy at Portillo’s opened the door for me, then a second door, and I thanked him and rushed through. Fries, I think. Fries.

It was then I cracked my left arm on the handle of the second door.

In my rush to get my promised fries, it did not really register how bad I hit my arm. I was so excited about the fact that the manager threw in two free pieces of chocolate cake that the pain barely registered. 

I got home and we wolfed down every morsel.

Although my arm had a little lump on it, it wasn’t really red. A few minutes later, though, my arm started throbbing. The tempo matched the throbbing in the stitches in my left temple and the toothache on the right. (whole separate story.)

The next day, and several subsequent days, the bruise started to look like a paint sample card from Menards.

ow. ow. ow. this pic doesn't do it justice.

It reminded me of last October, when I submitted an order for pizza at a local pizza place and when I got there, they didn’t have my order and claimed I submitted it to our Janesville location. “But if you want to wait for twenty minutes, I’ll get a new order ready for you.” *

I was hungry, and I was angry, and when I got into the car, I slammed my fingers in the car door. The fingers on my left hand. I’m still not sure how I did that, because if I am driving, I shut the door with my left hand.

ow. part 2.

 

So twice now, this is what happened when I was hungry, in a hurry, and our food order was messed up. This is what happens when you’re hangry. **

Angry plus hungry. Hangry. As far as I’m concerned, hangry equals injury. My left arm and fingers told me so.


my little scar. it looks much better now.

*the manager called me back and said that the kid behind the counter lied. He comped me the entire meal.

**I'm aware this might be a symptom of a weight problem.