Carbonara Curse

Today is a great day. I love my husband. I love my child. Nothing I’m about to say should distract you from those essential truths. However, it’s Friday and when I get home neither of them will be there. Neither. Of. Them. My husband is working third shift, and my mom took Elle for the night. So, when I get home, I kid you not, no human will be there. The cat will still be there, but she keeps to herself. We both know how important this time is for me. 

I can barely focus on work and instead keep Google-ing, “Best Christmas Movies 2023,” “Dumb but good movies on Netflix,” “Best reality TV you missed this year.” 

My manager comes by, and I quickly click to the Excel sheet where I’m analyzing social media dynamics. I highlight a row of clicks per post and go to turn it into a table of one thing or the other. I smile and crank my neck back to look over my shoulder. 

“Hey, Melissa.”

“What are you working on?”

“Oh, you know. Looking at the performance of our recent Instagram campaign.” I said. I quickly turn fully around in my chair, the idea just coming to me now. “Hey, I’m wondering if I could leave a little early today?”

“Umm…”

“Like, obviously not too early. I got work to get done.” I laugh to lighten the mood and try to turn her face from looking like she smelled a dirty diaper to her usual flat face. She’s fine. I really shouldn’t say that, but she’s the most unpersonal person in the world. I don’t know who decided to make her a manager. I assume her manager, who is similarly flat faced. Ultimately, it makes sense, but she truly should not be a manager. 

I open my eyes wider. Pleading silently from my chair looking up at her. Not a great negotiating position.

“What exactly do you need to leave for?”

“Well, my daughter has been sick recently and I’d like to pick her up from daycare early. They were hesitant to take her in the first place today.” The lie came out so easily. My ten years of work experience, if nothing else, has taught me how to lie without stuttering. And this little child has given me the golden goose of excuses. I use Elle limitedly because of all the times when she is actually sick with the latest daycare illness, with hand foot and mouth, with diarrhea that’s run rampant through school. But with all the poop I have to smell and accidently gets on my hands, arms, and clothes, I earned this lie. 

“Oh, okay. When do you want to go?”

“Well, I’m hoping around 3:30? Is that possible?”

“Umm…”

“I can definitely stay longer, no biggie.” I push out another chuckle. 

“No, that’s fine. Just get your work done for the day.”

“Will do!” I shoot her the finger guns and turn back around in my chair. 

Okay, so it’s 1:30PM. I’ve got two hours. I flipped back to my Google searches and after a bit decide it’s time to buckle down. Data entry. 2:00PM. I decide I must go to the bathroom and maybe get a soda or a snack. 2:23PM. Data entry. 

“Hey, Dan!” I give my biggest come talk to me smile. 

“Hey, I gotta get to a meeting.” 

I turn back to my computer and reluctantly start to do work. 3:20PM. Okay, if I can stay five more minutes that’s close enough. The minutes tick by as I stare at the Excel sheet. I zone out and by the time I come to it’s 3:31PM. 

“Damn it.” 

Ex-ing out of every program, I grab my bag and sling my coat over my arm and speed walk to the elevator willing myself invisible so that no one sees me leave early. As the elevator doors open, I haven’t seen anyone, and no one has seen me. My body is light. The air is crisp. I really should have put my coat on. 

Driving home I envision my couch, the fluffy green blanket I’ll wrap myself in all night, and what sort of snacks I’ll surround myself with. Charcuterie? Chips? Popcorn? As I pull into the driveway, my husband has already left for work, and I send up a little thank you. I drop everything off at the door, race to put on my pajamas and open the refrigerator doors wide. There is nothing more glamorous than opening the French doors on a fridge to cartons of leftovers, Lunchables, yogurts, a fully stocked fridge with no one asking for your food or to also make them a sandwich, mommy. 

Cheese and crackers is for sure the first snack. I tuck in for the Real Housewives of Salt Lake City. Julia, who wrote the think piece on the Real Housewives of Salt Lake, was 10/10 correct on her recommendation. As per usual, the Real Housewives franchise makes me want some wine, so I open a bottle and throw the cork away. I am home alone. There will be no child emergency where I need to get my shit together and drive her to the emergency room. I do not need that cork. 

I think I’ll order something luxurious from Door Dash for second dinner, but that leftover carbonara my husband made two days ago is calling my name. The microwave does its job and I gobble the remaining carbonara down. 

Two episodes later, my stomach rumbles. I skim through Door Dash for the perfect dish. Something my husband never really wants. Something I haven’t had in forever. Indian. It’s so expensive. It’s so luxurious. Saag paneer, naan, AND samosas. A cool $52.73 later and I’m waiting for saag while Whitney and Lisa fight at a gaudy casino-themed fundraiser. 

My stomach churns a bit. 

“Ooh.” Concern flits through my eyebrows. 

I don’t feel great. It’s fine. 

The Door Dasher drops off my food and I watch his car pull out of the driveway from my video doorbell. I bend down to pick up my saag and I am not okay. 

I rush the food to the counter and run to the bathroom. “When did you make the carbonara?!?!” I text my husband. He doesn’t answer immediately, so I text him again. “????!?!?!?!?”

“Oh my god.” He texted. “I think Sunday. Or Friday. No, it was definitely Friday after we got drinks with my co-workers. Why?”

“Because it is tearing up my insides!”

“Gen.”

“Babe.”

“Why?”

“Because I was hungry and it looked good.”

“But it’s like a week old.”

“I thought we had it Wednesday.”

“That doesn’t even make sense. We went to your parents’ on Wednesday.”

“I clearly didn’t remember that.”

“That’s rough.”

I crawled out of the bathroom and back to the couch. Luckily Jen Shah provided me enough drama to ignore my stomach lurching around. But my poor saag, my garlic naan, and those dear samosas sat uneaten on my kitchen counter. When I shuffled off to bed, I put my saag in the fridge and stole a bit of naan. My stomach wasn’t going to get worse, and I wanted some of that garlic wonder. 

I laid on my belly in bed, hoping the pressure from the outside would counter the pressure on the inside. Instead of the luxurious, child-less sleep I intended to get, I was tossing back and forth ripping the comforter off as I broke into a sweat and cuddling back up in it as the sweat became frozen on my forehead. Up and down from the bathroom, I’m unsure when I got even a minute of sleep. Jake came back at 4:30 in the morning. I was asleep on the bathroom floor. He rubbed my back. 

“My sweet, sweet, dumb wife.”

I groaned. He helped me up and into the bed. 

Seemingly, almost as soon as I closed my eyes, I heard the doorbell. My mom came into the house, Elle booming around, probably breaking something. 

“Gennie!”

“I’m up here.”

“Are you still in bed?”

“What do you mean it’s –” I looked at my phone, “9 o’clock. Also, I ate bad food.” 

“Oh no. Gen. Well, I have errands to run. I wish I could take Elle. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. She can sit on the ground while I hole up in the bathroom.” 

“Okay. I’m sorry, Hun.”

“Me too.” 

            I took Elle on my hip and said goodbye to my mom. She leaned her head back, her whole body following and let out a wail. I held her like a platter.

    “Babe, I don’t know what you want.”

    “Noodle. Noooo-dal.” 

Oh god.