When the puke slaps the floor, then you'll know.
So, this is the conclusion of a very stressful and busy week.
Monday, I went to the train station to pick up Nate and Jenny Pierpoint as they were coming in from London with the kids to stay with us for a couple days. To even get to the station in Huntingdon, you have to take a 364 degree turn to the right with oncoming traffic and lanes that are hardly wide enough for motorcycles, much less a sweet vintage BMW. Having been here for almost 6 months, I've come to accept how the British like to do an idiot thing once, and then repeat for 5 centuries. My theory is that in 1605, some wide-sunken-eyed Brit named George Shoerepairerton used to walk this path, and enjoyed missing his destination by 50 feet, requiring the sharp turn. I am for sure that George's great-great-great-grandson is now the city planner in charge of transportation.
Anyways, past that, over the next two days, Andrew (3-year old) and Nate proceed to get a very fast and ugly stomach virus. The father and son combo systematically fill every toilet and garbage can in our quaint English home with vomit and diarrhea. The amount of foulness can best be measured with both arms outstretched as if to say "I love you this much!". The sound of man-puke grunts still echo through our house to this day. Thankfully, they both were okay and no one had to run to the hospital. (Nate and Jenny, if you're reading this, I hope you see the humor)
Wednesday, I take the Pierpoints back the train station, skillfully navigating George's Blunder. I woke up with a twinge in my stomach, and I kept telling myself that I'm not sick. I am surely just paranoid. For instance, LICE!!! There, now you're paranoid too.
I can't be sick, I have my promotion test today!
I get to my test, which entails 2 tests, both an hour and three quarters long. They are very important, and failing to complete it could mean that I remain an Air Force piss ant for another 2 years. Not good.
I ask the Master Sergeant in charge of the test, "What happens if I get sick?"
She says, "Well, you stop where you are on the test, and we only count the questions you have right up to that point." (Military Translation: you're ^%$*&-ed)
I say, "Shoot. I've had company this week, and they've had a very bad flu."
"Do you feel sick now? Would you like to postpone?"
"No, I feel fine now, but they didn't know they were sick until like a minute before."
She was probably thinking that I was just trying to find a way out of the test so I could study more. "How will I know you're sick then?"
"When the puke slaps the floor, then you'll know."
It would've been really awesome if I had said that out loud. Wouldn't it? I didn't end up getting sick, though I think I would've preferred screaming at the toilet than the tests. I studied for about 45 hours, and I don't think a single minute of it helped. Let's just hope that I did better than I think.
Monday, I went to the train station to pick up Nate and Jenny Pierpoint as they were coming in from London with the kids to stay with us for a couple days. To even get to the station in Huntingdon, you have to take a 364 degree turn to the right with oncoming traffic and lanes that are hardly wide enough for motorcycles, much less a sweet vintage BMW. Having been here for almost 6 months, I've come to accept how the British like to do an idiot thing once, and then repeat for 5 centuries. My theory is that in 1605, some wide-sunken-eyed Brit named George Shoerepairerton used to walk this path, and enjoyed missing his destination by 50 feet, requiring the sharp turn. I am for sure that George's great-great-great-grandson is now the city planner in charge of transportation.
Anyways, past that, over the next two days, Andrew (3-year old) and Nate proceed to get a very fast and ugly stomach virus. The father and son combo systematically fill every toilet and garbage can in our quaint English home with vomit and diarrhea. The amount of foulness can best be measured with both arms outstretched as if to say "I love you this much!". The sound of man-puke grunts still echo through our house to this day. Thankfully, they both were okay and no one had to run to the hospital. (Nate and Jenny, if you're reading this, I hope you see the humor)
Wednesday, I take the Pierpoints back the train station, skillfully navigating George's Blunder. I woke up with a twinge in my stomach, and I kept telling myself that I'm not sick. I am surely just paranoid. For instance, LICE!!! There, now you're paranoid too.
I can't be sick, I have my promotion test today!
I get to my test, which entails 2 tests, both an hour and three quarters long. They are very important, and failing to complete it could mean that I remain an Air Force piss ant for another 2 years. Not good.
I ask the Master Sergeant in charge of the test, "What happens if I get sick?"
She says, "Well, you stop where you are on the test, and we only count the questions you have right up to that point." (Military Translation: you're ^%$*&-ed)
I say, "Shoot. I've had company this week, and they've had a very bad flu."
"Do you feel sick now? Would you like to postpone?"
"No, I feel fine now, but they didn't know they were sick until like a minute before."
She was probably thinking that I was just trying to find a way out of the test so I could study more. "How will I know you're sick then?"
"When the puke slaps the floor, then you'll know."
It would've been really awesome if I had said that out loud. Wouldn't it? I didn't end up getting sick, though I think I would've preferred screaming at the toilet than the tests. I studied for about 45 hours, and I don't think a single minute of it helped. Let's just hope that I did better than I think.
posted by Scottie at
8:01 AM
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