Break Out the Tarp Window Covers....

If the plague really does break out today, as Susan predicted last week, me thinks I'm to blame.

You may be wondering where I've been all week. I sure as hell wasn't voting. Save your breath--- Hausfrau already lectured me. So I cut her off and told her I voted Republican. She almost hung up on me. Tee hee.

No, my friends, I've been elbow deep in the squirts for the past twelve days. The twins both got this nasty stomach bug, and I've just about been gassed out of the house. Over in NotMarthaLand, we disposed of our Diaper Genie when we could no longer decide what smelled worse--- the damn diaper bucket, or the actual crappy diapers. Now, when we have to get rid of a pooper, we throw it into a plastic grocery bag, give the bag a whirl and a knot, and toss the whole thing out on the back porch. It stays there until one of us heads outside and throws it into the trash in the garage. Usually that happens within an hour or so, so it's all good. But with this stomach virus, even after only an hour, three or more bags might be plopped out there, pyramid style. Call this disgusting if you want, but believe you me, if and when you ever have twins yourselves, you'll see that you begin to do all sorts of things that would have grossed you out in the past.

Anyhoo, I'm sure none of you were checking out the weather for upstate New York for the past week or so, but there were a few days when we were under a "Wind Advisory." Which, of course, is just a nice thing to call it to keep the masses calm when we see Dorothy's house whirling around outside our windows. Leaves were swirling into little dust devils, mums sailed off porches into the streets, people bent into 45 degree angles just to get down the sidewalks with their dogs. The dogs, of course, were airborne. You get the idea.

I woke up after a particularly tornado-ish night to find the morning surprisingly calm. I opened the door to add another poop bag to the stack, and noticed the stack was gone. Gone. GONE!!!

So I frantically ran into the back yard to look for them. They weren't there.

I ran into the front yard. Not there either.

The street? Nope.

I ran up and down the road, searching, searching, sure I had infected the entire neighborhood with Flying Poop Bags. I thought I saw one under the Thompson's tree, so I scurried over there, snatched it up, and let out an anguished yell. It was one of those freaking plastic-bag ghosts that people hang from their trees at Halloween.

Then I saw another bag. Once again, I ran over to it, picked it up, and hollered when I saw it was ANOTHER ghost. And so it went, with me scurrying in my pj's, braless, barefoot, and bed-headed, up and down the street, hopping around people's yards, picking up ghosts, muttering and swearing to myself. Thank God I'm not 80, because I'm sure someone looking up from their morning paper to see me flailing around in their leaves would mistake me for a Wandering Granny and have me picked up.

I never found the bags. And I agitated about it all day. I was mortified and concerned that the entire block would be poisoned from our E Coli packets.

When Hubby came through the door at 5, I tearfully told him the whole sordid tale. And you know what he said to me?

"Katy, I threw those bags out when I left for work this morning."

I could have slugged him.