All hail Wilson, conqueror of snot monsters

Sunday, March 12, 2006

SHE SAID: My husband doesn't snuggle up to me at night.

He snuggles up to Wilson.

It's not what you think. It's worse.

Wilson is what we named the roll of toilet paper Bob keeps at his side due to the most disgusting case of allergies I have ever seen (ever seen "Cast Away"? It's like that Wilson, except not a volleyball).

I wake up in the middle of the night to see Wilson tucked in the crook of Bob's arm. They look so peaceful together.

What isn't peaceful is the 50 times a night I wake up to hear Bob and Wilson bonding.


Sometimes, Wilson breaks free from Bob's grasp and goes wandering about the bed. I wake up to find him lodged in my back or wedged in my eye, with Bob digging through the sheets and pillows and anxiously asking, "Have you seen Wilson?"

And -- even worse -- occasionally there's used Wilson piled in a heap on the floor (next to a perfectly good trash can).

Do I win the Disgusting Husband of the Year Contest?

If you say no, please send in examples of the icky things your husband does ( or Disgusting Husband, P.O. Box 699, Cape Girardeau, Mo. 63701). It will console me.

HE SAID: Every night, depending on the pollen and mold counts, the temperature change and the moon cycle, I wake to find my sinuses, to some degree, filled like small water balloons behind my nose and at the back of my throat. And every night, for the past several years, I have reached for my soft Charmin friend.

I don't treat him well. I tear pieces off him and deposit my never-ending supply of mucus into his torn-off skin.

Of course my cute and talented wife, Callie, is disgusted by my nightly honking and hacking. Quite frankly, I am too. I don't understand how it is physically possible for one human being to excrete so much, um, fluid substance.

A couple of years ago, I began sleeping with the toilet paper roll. He became important to me, and I figured he deserved a name. Wilson seemed appropriate. Unlike Chuck Noland (Tom Hanks) in "Cast Away," I don't talk to my imaginary friend. I just tuck him under my arm at night like a little teddy bear. He's soft and always there for me when I need him. Well, except when he gets lost in the blankets somewhere and I'm forced to go to the bathroom for another Wilson.

Wilson is a running joke between Callie and me, but he's caused a few arguments as well. She tells me I need to go to my allergist and find some solution to my liquidation problem. The allergist has put me on various medications. One of them works OK. I still wake every night, but I wake a little later and with a little less ghastly goo. I don't think the medicine justifies the $45 I have to pay for it every month, so I haven't had the prescription refilled. It's a sacrifice I make so that Callie may purchase her scrapbooking supplies. She should love me for it, right?

The best solution I've found for my all-the-time slime are those nose strips you can buy at the grocery store. I breathe easier with those, and sometimes I don't wake at all through the night. But doggone it, I have a hard enough time convincing my wife that I'm a desirable man. She can't look at me with a straight face when I put one of those stupid things on. Besides that, if I don't wake up during the night to rid myself of my nasal demons, my morning begins with more violent nose-blowing, the kind that makes me wobbly and conjures little pink and white lights that appear like mirages just inches from my face. They could make a horror film of it all, I'm telling you.

Callie doesn't understand. She's too proper, never burping or passing gas or blowing her nose in my presence. It's like she's not even human, except the fact that she's frequently ill with other ailments and that she eats sunflower seeds, spitting the shells out rather sloppily.

Anyway, the only one who really cares is Wilson. He's always there. And he's my friend. I don't care what anybody says.

335-6611, extension 128

335-6611, extension 122

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