michael kors bagMy husband is recovering from a urinary tract infection. (Don’t laugh. Real men do get them.)

He never, ever, ever gets sick, unless it is self-induced overindulgence. So when he started running a fever a few days ago, and told me that it hurt when he peed, I was a little concerned. Ironically, he had just been to the doctor for a complete physical the day before. His first in a few years. And that doctor just happens to be a friend as well. So I texted him the details of hubby’s symptoms. Around the same time, some of his initial lab results came in. And he had an elevated white blood cell count in his urine. And pus. (Sorry but want to be factual.)

The doc called in a prescription for Cipro and asked that hubby pee in a sterilized container to take to the lab in the morning. So I found the oldest, and smallest, tupperware container I could find and poured copious amounts of boiling water in to it. After drying the container, I took it upstairs where I watched my poor, shivering, 102 plus febrile husband sit to piss in it. Not a pretty site. Because it was the evening, I popped the container in to the fridge, next to all of our 50 plus condiments, and hoped that none of the children would mistake it for lemon juice.

The next morning, I fished around in the closet for a small shopping bag that would be appropriate for taking a small tupperware container of pee to the lab. And found the perfect one. A Michael Kors bag. I’ve never bought anything by Michael Kors. Too expensive. But there was this one pair of leather sandals (strappy, simple, perfect) that my sister-in-law had a few years back that I still covet. Anyhow, this Michael Kors bag ended up in my house because it was used to hold a bottle of Woodford Reserve bourbon given to my husband by one of his employees for Christmas.

While I was driving the pee-filled Michael Kors bag to the lab, I was listening to one of my daughter’s favorite radio channels. One that plays rap and hip hop. And this song came on: Big Sean’s Dance (A$$) featuring Nicki Minaj. You know the one. Of course you do. I’m sure it’s on all of your playlists. If not, just ask my 12 year-old daughter about it. She knows all of the words. (Parenting fail but falls under the category of “pick your battles”. Plus, on the radio, they bleep out most of the offensive language.) It starts off with the lyrics “Ass ass ass ass ass ass…”.

I was singing along, the best I could, and my favorite part came on, the part with Nicki Minaj singing, “Couldn’t get Michael Kors if you was fuckin’ Michael Kors.” I sang it loud and proud while looking lovingly at the bag on the seat next to me. It was one of those moments when the world just seems perfect.

I also like the line where Nicki sings, “Kiss my ass and my anus, ’cause it’s finally famous.” Which of course leads us back to the whole UTI thing. Because one of the ways a man gets a UTI? Putting his pecker where some might say it doesn’t belong (except on his birthday or when you’re on a cruise ship in foreign waters and a few other lifetime milestones). What a perfect song. Right?

A few days later, the results of the urine culture came back. The culprit was E. coli. (Did you know we all harbor E. coli in our bowels? WebMD says so.) Hubby has been on the right antibiotics so he’s feeling better. His physician/friend has advised him not to put his urethra in certain places. (But sometimes, you know, it’s dark and well, you know, it gets a little slippery back there.)

But I’m not certain that’s how hubby got sick. Because then we had this conversation where I shared one of my preventative measures with him, learned the hard way when I had a kidney infection a few years back due to a UTI gone rogue: If I take a somewhat virulent crap, I stand up slightly when I flush the toilet so I don’t get splashed by the perhaps E. coli contaminated toilet water. Hubby said he didn’t do that but that sometimes, when he is sitting down to defecate, and then flushes the toilet, the water rises up to his wiener. Whoa, this could be the UTI culprit because no, your dick should not be touching the toilet water in which you just shat. Lift your penis up out of the water.

Problem solved.

And yes, I know. I’m lucky I have a husband whose penis is long enough to touch the toilet water. And unlucky that I can’t the image out of my head.

Rock on Nicki Minaj.

(Nicki comes on around 1:23. If you’re curious.)

PS The lab kept my Michael Kors bag. Anyone have an extra one?