Today, I’ve had “tummy troubles”.
By tummy I mean “my lower digestive tract”. By “troubles” I mean “diarrhea”. Yuk. After the 468th trip to the bathroom, I realized, while sitting on the white gilded throne, that I’ve had ‘tummy troubles’ a few times recently.
By “a few” I mean “twice” and by “recently”, I mean “this week”. Now, I know that ladies aren’t supposed to discuss such things. I was raised to not acknowledge that I even had a digestive tract, and that NOBODY ever wanted to know what was going on in mine. And that’s ok, since nobody reads my blog anyway, I’m in the clear as far as the Lady Club is concerned.
Although, I am so very not a lady. Ladies drink tea and water, both with lemon. I drink Diet Dr. Pepper with Cherry. Ladies never discuss bodily functions, not even the mostly inoffensive ones like thinking and having a heartbeat. I’ve complained about my period on the internet. Ladies use polite language. I try sometimes not to cuss in front of the kids. Sometimes. And I hate lemons in any beverage. They’re ok in Meringue Pies. But that’s it.
Well, I’m digressing about digesting. The fact is, that I’ve had tummy issues a few times lately, and I realized while Attending The Facilities, that there is a good chance that if my wife finds out that I’m again having the runnies, she is going to make me eat a more of her yogurt. I must, therefore, at all costs, prevent her from finding out on pain of worse than death. Its not (just) that her yogurt is All Natural. No Yoplait for My Dear. Hers is GROSS. It isn’t even sweetened. It has the consistency of clotted milk. The only flavor comes from the three tiny pieces of fruit that lie pathetically at the bottom of the cup: sad, like orphaned children.
So, in order to eat this clotted milk, you have to stir the yogurt and these three pieces with the determination of a baking contestant whose first entry in the week’s competition failed utterly to impress Paul and Mary. If you do not stir the yogurt long enough, you end up with chunky yogurt. Nobody wants chunky yogurt. The three pieces of fruit will disintegrate as you stir, leaving you eventually with a yogurt that looks deceivingly the color of decent yogurt, but with none of the flavor. Of any flavor. And its probably still chunky. Its terrible yogurt, given to humanity by gods who hate mankind and want retribution for stealing fire or inventing MLMs or something. Its the kind of yogurt that makes vikings want to go fight hordes and rummage and pillage other lands to get away from it. And by the time I’m done describing it here, I have already had to RUN to the bathroom, past my increasingly suspicious wife three times. The jig is up. She’s on to me. I can see horrible gods-hate-us yogurt in my very near future.
The upside is, that having written all about this dreaded food product, I have been able to hear the word yogurt spoken in my imagination, pronouncing it as Alan Rickman did in Love, Actually. I hear it just as he spoke in his adorably delicious voice as he sarcastically asks Mr Bean Rowan Atkinson, ‘What are you going to dip it in yoghurt?” pronouncing it ‘yaw-gurt’. Yaw-Gurt. *sighs contentedly*
Yes, it truly is the little things in life that make it special. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta run. I think I hear my wife rummaging in the fridge.
skylarkermom 