I Think I Threw Up a Little in My Mouth

So here is my pitiful tale of the Chinese herbs and YES, I do realize that many women have been through much worse, and that I’m just a little cry baby, but it’s my blog and I’ll whine if I want to…

After stewing the horrible concoction because HELLO!  no one told me I should ask for the powdered version of this crap, which literally took about two hours, I screamed at BeBop to get his fucking ass downstairs and for once in his friggin life friggin HELP me with something sweetly requested the presence of my dear, supportive husband.

His ‘help’ consisted of holding my nose while I drank, not realizing that while my mouth was occupied with liquid, with a blocked nasal passage I could not BREATHE.  As I sputtered and choked out "can’tbreathecan’tbreathe" he figured out that I was quite literally drowning in Chinese herbal tea.

Then, his next retarded idea helpful suggestion was to yell at me while I’m trying to take tiny sips which is, granted, not a good idea. 

"Just pound it. One big gulp like you’re shotgunning a BEER!" On a helpful scale of 1-10, that was about a 3.  The tea tasted nothing like a cold beer, and I was having a hard time conjuring up images of being at a toga party wearing an adorable pink sheet to set off my tan, surrounded by hot frat boys, my best girl friends around me and a kicky version of Love Shack playing in the background.

Next was:  "Do it for the family. Think of Fredo."

This was a 2.  Rarely do random quotes from The GodFather inspire me, but at least bring it with the mattresses quote, or the one about keeping your friends close but your enemies closer.  Who the fuck is Fredo and what does HE have to do with me drinking this God awful tea??

With me gagging on the tea, pathetically whining about how reallyI’mnotkiddingittastesworsethanyoucanimagine, I start to realize that in clear violation of the laws of physics, somehow the TEA WAS REPLENISHING ITSELF — each tiny sip was actually creating MORE in the cup!!!!!!!!!!!!!

BeBop’s last suggestion was to think of Fear Factor, which of course just made me think of really disgusting things those freaks eat in the hopes of making it to the next round where they can be hung by wires on the face of a 20-story building over the teeming streets of Los Angeles or swim through a cesspool populated with alligators or try to escape from a plexiglass covered body of water where it really really looks like you’re going to drown ANY SECOND. Not that I’ve actually watched that show. Please. I just read about it. In the New Yorker.  Anyway,  NOT my idea of a good time, so this did not constitute a helpful idea AT ALL.  Probably a 1.

Clearly, he was not catching on.  The idea of say, quietly cheering me on, saying how this would work, that I’d be healthy and would somehow (again,  in a clear violation of physics) be able to get pregnant, was just not on his radar.

So for the rest of the weekend I skulked into the kitchen and, hurling a barrage of insulting comments at BeBop, silently sipping my tea, a peaceful sort of calm came over me as I realized this was the first in a long line of guilt-inducing insults I could one day (fingers crossed!) fling at my offspring.

Much like what Zee mentioned in her comment, this could be the go-to martyr claim-to-fame.  My own mother had a litany of these she used as weapons against my sister and me for years.  It has almost become a fill-in-the-blank game, since she has so many statements that end with the words:

Until I had you little brats.

For example: 

I had perfect B cups, Until I had you little brats.  Or, I was always a size 10, Until I had you little brats.

So, just to carry on the family tradition, my very own collection of therapy-inducing parental statements could be something like:

I used to like tea, Until I had you little brats. 

Or,

I used to like Chinese food, Until I had you little brats.

Feel free to add your own ideas in the comments section!