I got Gary to agree we would go see Argo this past weekend at the fancy leather-seated five-star cinema, but Friday ... well, I could have just stopped that sentence with "but." Or rather, "butt." Gary's butt. It is unwell.
It became unwell Friday morning, about an hour before we had our yearly physical. Thanks to Gary, I can report the conversation he had with the GP immediately after his prostate exam.
"Geeeeccchh!" the doctor said as he left Prostate Avenue.
Gary said, "Oh yes, sorry. I haven't been too well this morning. It's probably a mess in there."
"Uuurghhk!" the doctored hacked in response, and then I imagine he very daintily plucked off his glove. Then he gave Gary some tissues. "When you are done wiping off, throw it in the RED container." Probably the biohazard container with the sharps and mucus.
Poor doctor. And of course, poor Gary, who had to spend the weekend in the bathroom with the "stomach flu." (You know, people with the "stomach flu" don't appreciate hearing that you can only get influenza in your lungs.)
After a weekend of the fluid poops (band name!) Gary woke up today and said, "I just had a big house dream. YOU removed the toilet in the bathroom! You said it would be more spacious."
"You know I would never do that," I said.
He went on, "And I was all, what else is a bathroom to a man but a toilet? A man doesn't put his makeup on in there. And then you refused to put the toilet back in."
So again I am sleeping in the guest room. I don't want what he has and he's still grumpy that I got rid of the toilet.