Love Means Never Having to Say You’re Sorry, Unless, of Course, You Puke in the Sink

He actually brought it up. Four years later, and he did it. My husband said the words. 

What were the words? He said blah, blah, blah, “like that time someone puked in the sink.”

Recently, the bathroom floor has been raining into our basement. We suspected ectoplasm, but we concluded it must be the shower. A portion of our plumbing was sodered befor the bicentennial—before my neighbor fondly remembers watching a foal being born in a no longer existent barn in our backyard (and I fondly look forward to accidentally excavating horse remains someday). Herbert Hoover was interrogating Lucille Ball. Our house even still has some lead pipes. Don’t worry. These are all outgoing sewage pipes and I don’t make the children lick those—only the PVC ones—and that’s strictly after exhausting all other disciplinary strategies.

I remember the night distinctly, well, the first part anyway. I was just beginning my vegan phase. I was starving. A cookbook was downloaded on to my Nook. The plan was to carefully craft enough seitan for me to live off of in a emergency. The seitan was going to be marinated in vegetable broth overnight. My mother passed down her culinary talents to me. Basically, she taught me how to use a can opener. Before Brian, during my singlemomdom, my daughter was raised on a strictly cereal and Spaghettios diet. Food preparation evokes a fight-or-flight response. So after Shoprite, I hit up Canals Discount Liquors.

At some point during the following hours, oddly, nausea overcame me. And because I was completing other tasks while sitting on the toilt, my options were to puke on the floor or the sink. I chose the latter. A least it was porcelain and self contained. It would be less messy, but what I hadn’t figured into the equation was our slightly outdated plumbing. After that point, for some reason my memory becomes a little fuzzy.

I couldn’t figure out why he was so upset. He loves Charles Bukowski who said, “Sometimes you just have to piss in the sink.” I thought he’d understand. Other than the color, smell, consistency, and the orifice it exits, what’s the difference between the two?

The sink was incapacitated. He used Drano and hot water which didn’t work, so he took it apart and put it back together again, which also didn’t work, so he tried a strong ammonia based solution, which not only bore an actual hole in the pipe, it converted into chlorine gas. Thankfully, somehow, we all survived.

Last night, I had an epiphany. “That’s what I am going to blog about! And the title will be Love Means Never Having to Say You’re Sorry Unless You Puke in the Sink!”

He responded, “It should be called Love Means Never Having to Say You’re Sorry Unless You’re Being an Asshole.

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