There was once a time in my life when the snap of a latex glove meant I was about to engage in some lurid act of sex. Something positively fringe.
That is no longer the case.
Now I wear them if I'm about to stain some vintage looking piece of furniture I picked up at a thrift store, or I wear them to clean vomit.
This morning as I slipped my hands into the familiar gloves, it was to clean up vomit.
It all started last night somewhere around 2:00 AM when Boss Lady climbed into my bed whimpering and burping up all kinds of awful (you are so jealous of me, I can tell) and carrying with her the distinct smell of a five year old that's about to lose her cookies. If you don't have kids and therefore don't know what the hell I'm talking about, let me explain this potent perfume: it's equal parts sour milk, rotten fruit and Lucky Charms.
Where there's smoke there's fire, and when there's this smell there's vomit. Ten minutes later she's face down in the toilet and I'm holding her hair, rubbing her back and cooing like a pigeon in my daughter's ear.
What I didn't know was that she had already hurled in her bedroom. I didn't find that out until about 8:00 this morning after it had cooked all night thanks to the heater that I left on.
When you combine partially digested pasta with a room set at a comfortable 68 degrees, what you get is cookie dough. Puke patties.
"Why didn't you tell me you got sick in your room?" I ask her this as my hands start to sweat and I consider just throwing the whole fucking bed away or burning it in my neighbor's yard.
"I didn't make it to the bathroom. Can I have some cereal?"
"I don't think that's such a good idea." I say this to her but what I mean is No, you can't ever eat solid foods again. In fact, I'll be putting all future meals in the food processor and you'll sip it through a straw because Mommy doesn't like picking up chunks of food that were once in your stomach but are now all over your bed and the carpet.
"Oh, and Mom ...."
"I also frew-up in the heater."