The Sanitize Cycle

I’m on the other side of a three-day weekend. 

It was rough.  Seriously.  For the third time this season, a ubiquitous stomach bug has swept through the house.  My washing machine hates me.  I sense it.  It recoils at my appearance.   The steady diet of soiled bedding has it rocking off its pedestal.  I hate to break it to it, but these viruses tend to travel in pairs, if not paces (pace-defined-a collection of asses…aka my family). 

Stomach flu has always been this mother’s Achilles’ heel.  In my earlier days, it sent me to the gas station in search of a pack of cigarettes.  If my kids needed me and I couldn’t be located inside, there was a good chance they could find me hot boxing a smoke behind the shed.

Now older and cheaper, I’ve given up standing out back.  I can buy a decent bottle of wine with what a single pack of cigarettes now cost.  And though I’m sure there was some mental benefit from removing myself from my less-than-sterile environment, smoking is something I think I’ve finally outgrown.

My demeanor is such that a few months ago when John came down with a stomach malady at work, he phoned to say he wouldn’t be coming home.  His office, equipped with a couch and a bathroom, seemed more appealing to him than the comfort of his own home and his Lysol-wielding wife. 

I should have been ashamed of myself.  Surely, a husband who fears his wife in times of sickness puts my soul at risk for an eternity of caring for my family while infected with the stomach flu. 

Kenny’s latest bout was, if nothing else, interesting.  For two days his skill at hiding his sweatpants (as he still abhors wearing underwear), was so advanced, he even fooled himself.

“Come on, Kenny,” I coaxed.  “I won’t be mad.  I know you couldn’t help it, but you have to show me where you hid the evidence.”

Before my new front-loading, music-playing washing machine, I might have just thrown those soiled casualties away.  But with a sanitizing cycle, I figured my HG was up to the challenge.

But like something out of the Twilight Zone, I think I heard my machine threaten me from the basement Friday night.  Like Talking Tina, it informed me in no uncertain terms, if I kept feeding it shit it was going to find a way to get even.

Thankfully this morning, Kenny for the first time in a few days eagerly ate his breakfast of French toast. 

I’d love to relay his answer when I asked him how he was feeling, but John recommends that some responses are better left undocumented.

As for the dejected machine in my basement, I hope to have at least a couple days of reprieve before I have to test its limits again.  After all, there are still two people (myself included), who have not yet experienced the pleasure of the flu this season.  

I wonder,  might the sanitize cycle work on people too?