Richard Dreyfuss and Me

* Warning* For those of you who frequent my blog (Hi Mom&Dad!), you know by now that most of my stories sometimes contain bodily function references and general complaints about my life. The following story breaks the mold in that it is quite heavy laden with bodily function references and the whining might very well be intolerable. You've been warned.

This past Monday, I was under the attack of the most ferocious gastrointestinal bug to ever hit me in my life. I woke up in the middle of the night with the strange feeling that all was not well down bellow. I tried to convince myself that I was only experiencing a touch of indigestion, but as I made my way towards the couch, I grabbed my comfy blanket, my hot water bottle, and a pail in preparation for the coming storm. I had hoped that perhaps the T.V. would help in taking my mind off my toiling tummy, and I was pleased to find that "The Good-bye Girl" was playing on one of the channels. I tried my best to focus on the charming little romance unfolding on the screen, attempting to ignore the acrobatics being preformed by my stomach. The star of the movie, Richard Dreyfuss, was as cute and hyper as ever, and considering that he is on my list of people I would like to read me to sleep, (the list also includes Peter Ustinov, Bob Newhart and Judi Dench, just in case you're wondering) I had hoped the sound of his voice would lull me into a tranquil world, free of tummy troubles. Unfortunately, I did doze off, but not into a peaceful, happy little snooze. I became trapped in a fitful delirium, an unhappy place where I could still hear the sounds of the movie, and each little sound made me feel sicker and sicker. I felt like I was drowning in the blathering voice of Richard Dreyfuss, and nothing could stop it! But suddenly, it did stop-my eyes popped open, and it become clear that sleepy time was over, and I quickly made my way to the washroom.
I don't enjoy throwing-up. I can't think of any friends or relations that do, either. I'm not sure if all people do this, but just before "showtime", I always begin frantic, last second negotiations with my stomach. I plead with it to just stay the course, to hang in there a little longer, and that I'll try to be more attentive, do anything it wants...needless to say, my offers are usually flat out rejected. This time was no different.
(I have mentioned before that my greatest fear is dying in the shower, and having a group of attractive firemen haul my naked corpse into a body bag. I'd like to change that fear to having good looking firemen pry my head out of the toilet, and then hauling me away in a body bag.)
Thinking that maybe the worst was behind me (foreshadowing, anyone?), I stumbled to the couch and fell back into my dozy world of a mocking Richard Dreyfuss, this time accompanied by part of the cast from Mama Mia (Meryl Streep refused to participate-the woman is a saint!). Once again, I was jolted from my state of unrest, and let me tell you, my body meant serious business. The sounds of my agony roused my husband, and he entered into what can only be described as a horror show. You know your man is a keeper when he can nonchalantly walk in on you when you've got (ahem) both barrels blazing, bring you a damp cloth, clean jammies and a glass of water, and then assist your feeble body back to the couch to die in peace, all without blinking an eye...or gagging.
(You know when I said that my worst fear was to have the hot firemen pry my head out the toilet? Well I've got one better, but I'm too classy to describe it here....well not really, but I think you've probably figured it out by now)
So what are the lessons learned from all this? #1. The hallucinatory version of Richard Dreyfuss is very mean. #2. The real 2:00 a.m. version of my husband is very sweet. And #3. I don't ever want to die on or near a toilet.