I’m traumatized. Really. So much so that I had to wait for my sense of humor to return in order to start writing again.
We’ve been fighting a war here against something I think I’ve never fully conceived. I’ve heard horror stories, but blocked them out. I’ve had unnerving visions over the course of my lifetime, but quickly blinked them away. The only references I’ve called upon originated from The Exorcist, Stand by Me, a few choice episodes of Intervention, and movies full of frothing, groaning zombies.
I’m talking stomach virus, people. And it attacked our house.
I won’t get into specifics, but family members went down like Kamikazes, items were ruined, rug machines were purchased, pharmacies were consulted, and I will never look at New Year’s Eve the same way again.
Soda bottles, Solo cups, and an open bottle of Cabernet lay out on a counter for three days. Leftover Chinese food containers waited in the dark of the refrigerator. Open bags of chips rested, undisturbed, where they had been put down. Paper plates were strewn about, and unused crystal wine glasses sat on their rims, mocking me. They were all mocking me.
My washing machine has been running for five days straight. And I’ve got one of those high-efficiency machines. You know, the ones that recycle the water? So, yeah. Pile some gross right on top of your disgusting there.
We spent the greater part of yesterday attempting to purge the depravity from our home, while our children, confined to their playyard, protested the injustice. The heat was turned off and the windows were opened, as we tried our level best to restore our home to the peaceful, disorganized place it had once been.
But we’re not quite finished yet.
So don’t bother asking me what my New Year’s Resolution is. It’s to never, ever celebrate New Year’s at home again.