Nothing to See Here…

WARNING:  this post contains gross bodily expulsions, do not read while eating, do not read while menu-planning, do not read if you want to continue enjoying lobster bisque, do not read if you have a weak stomach, do not read if you have weak bowels.

Oh, fucking hell, just DON’T READ it, OK?

People (and I mean the rest of you stupid ones who are still reading - have you no sense?) - you are not going to believe what happened to me tonight. 

Remember how I told you baby Rae-Rae was sick and I was worried that she might ruin my Halloween photo-op?  I said “Suck it up, Rae-Rae… don’t be such a baby!  When life gives you the vomits, make vomit-ade.”  (Oh my god, that’s the most horrible, disgusting thing ever, I can’t even believe my sick mind conceived of the word vomit-ade.)

Well, Rae-Rae did suck it up and she went trick or treating and we, her parents who are supposed to be smart, were too tired to keep her from the glorious candy and yet miraculously it all stayed down.  My brave girl… that hardy immigrant stock, that unsinkable spirit.  That’s my girl - she got that from ME.

Only today I’m not buying the rah-rah vomit-ade pep talk, because, PEOPLE — now it’s ME who is sick.

I was OK at work all day, but my tummy was roiling.  Suck it up, I told myself.  I had a business dinner with some out of town visitors.  I made it through dinner, got my car, pulled onto Clayton Road and thought “I’m probably not going to make it one more minute.”

Thank god for the empty McDonald’s Big Hugo cup in the cup-holder. THANK GOD.

Do you think that’s it?  Do you think that’s the story?  Oh, no…. that’s only part of it.

For this stomach bug seems to manifest itself equally with the north and south orifices.  And wasn’t it Newton who said ‘For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction’?  Dude was not lying.  And I can’t bring myself to say anymore about that.

Oh my god, I shat myself.  You realized that, didn’t you?  I did (and what’s even stupider is me sitting here telling the entire flippin’ internet.)

My first thoughts were:

1.  I can honestly say with first-hand experience that lobster bisque definitely doesn’t taste as good the second time.

2.  Thank god the Big Hugo cups are, you know, big.

3.  Why couldn’t I have puked at the restaurant like all the other women?  (OK, that was bad… bulimia jokes are never funny, are they?)

4.  There is a $50 meal that I didn’t even have to pay for wasted in that cup.

I’ll stop, I’ll stop.  The whole ordeal is disgusting. 

So if you saw a woman puking into a McDonald’s cup going west on Clayton Road right up from Busch’s Grove, that was me.  Nice to meet you.  I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t shake your hand.

Here I am 15 miles from home with a cup full of puke and then my little accident down south.  My instinct was to floor it and drive home as fast as I could, but my intellect took over and imagined a few scenarios:

1.  Cop pulls me over for speeding.

2.  Hit a pot hole or slam on breaks and Big Hugo spills all over me.

So I watched the speedometer and kept myself in check all while holding my nose and lamenting the entire situation.  There is no such thing as positive self-talk when you’re in a van that smells like mine did.  “Oh my god, I am so gross.  This is disgusting.  How am I going to sneak into the house?  Who invented these disgusting bodily functions anyway?  How gross is this?  I can’t believe I did that.  This would never happen to anyone else, only me, only me.”  And then, of course, I thought “Wow, I wonder if this would make a good blog post?”  Anything for the attention, I guess.

I was terrified of being pulled over.  I was practicing what I would say the whole way home.  “Officer, I swear to you I’m not drunk, I have a stomach bug that caused me to vomit and oh, please do not make me get out of this van and pleeeeeeease don’t make me tell you why I can’t get out of the van and I swear I’m not drunk.”  I wondered how unlawful a high speed chase was, because, people, I was not getting out of that van.

I did, however, have the presence of mind to mentally write this post on my drive home.  And as much as a routine traffic stop would have made this a much better post ala Mulberry Street, it didn’t happen, thank God.  I made it home safely without incident (well, what I mean is without any additional incident) and ran upstairs and got in the shower.

My husband couldn’t stop saying “Ewwwww…” and laughing at me and spraying Fabreeze in my general direction.  Bastard. 

Short version of the story is that I’m sick.  I’m sick, my two year old is still recovering, my ten year old puked all over the new furniture, and I should probably keep the four year old home just for good measure.  And?  My husband is leaving on a business trip at the crack of freaking dawn.  Oh, joy.

So if you need me, Internet, I’ll be over here cleaning up everyone’s puke and scrubbing gussets.  Don’t mind me… it’s nothing compared to the ordeal I survived earlier tonight.

ps: I can’t believe I just told the whole internet I shat myself had an accident.

pss:  Nina!!  Dammit, I told you not to read this!  Why are you still reading, woman?

Edited to add:  Oh my God, I’ve crossed the line, haven’t I?  Last night, I sat there thinking do I really want to blog this?  Is it too much?  But I went ahead and hit the publish button and now you are all looking and then running to the bathroom and vowing never, ever to come back here again, right?  Am I right? 

Gah, I don’t have the sense God gave a goat, do I?  I think I crossed the line.  I need to figure out if I should delete this post or not…  (Of course, I’ve already written my next one, less gross, and it sort of builds on this so I’d be screwing things up if I deleted this.)

This blogging business is hard, huh?  hahaha