Long story short, I woke up feeling like nauseous death and wound up puking up last night's OJ. (Side note: our toilet is so dirty.) I've been a sicky poo all day with what I guess is a hangover but it feels so much worse. Low (no) energy and a pathetic appetite. Dehydration for the win!
Thank the good Lord for friends who enjoy packing, otherwise today would have been a waste. My laundry situation is almost packed and under control. Bring on the living out of a suitcase for ten days!
The irony is, I made the bold statement yesterday to one of our friends that 2014 was going to be the year of no puking. 2013 was kind of the opposite. For the record, I'd never been a big up-chucker until then.
Anyway, I wrote this up a few weeks ago and never got around to posting it. Today felt like the right moment so you're welcome.
This summer we went on rather ill-fated fishing trip. And by “fishing trip” I mean that the menfolk went to fish and the womenfolk to knit and sit around the campfire.
I was coming off what felt like a looong week at work, right in the middle of my “holy cow, I want to go to bed at 8:30 every Friday night” phase. We left right after work and were planning on eating once we got out to our coastal location (two hours away) so I begged and pleaded with Karl to make me a banana peanut butter chocolate smoothie. He did. It was wonderful. I was exhausted.
The road to Port Renfrew is a windy one and one our driver had done many times before, so he drove if confidently.
We’d barely left town before I was asking for a Gravol and trying to sleep my way to our destination. I’m not one to get carsick, but if I’m feeling a little nauseous napping always helps.
Not this time.
We’re about two-thirds of the way there when I started to feel really unsettled. I looked up from my pillow and tapped Karl on the arm, covering my mouth in the international “I think I my spew” symbol.
He got the picture and mentioned that he thought I might be sick. That’s when the wrong choice was made.
Instead of slamming on the breaks and hurtling me out of the car, we kept driving for a few more seconds as the question of “really?” was asked and our friends up front mentally weighed the risk of a potential vomit situation in the back seat with the time that would be wasted stopping for a false alarm.
It wasn’t a false alarm.
The next thing I next I knew banana peanut butter chocolate smoothie was erupting out of me. All I could think was, Don’t get it in your purse. Don’t get it in your purse.
In no time whatsoever we were pulled over on the side of the highway, smoothie all over my face, my hands, my pants, on the car seat, down my shirt, down my bra, and in my hair. But none in my purse.
I had managed to localize my vomit to mostly the front of my body. And by that I means mostly down my shirt.
That day found me stripping down to my underwear on the side of the road, covered in my previously consumed smoothie which didn’t really smell good anymore. It wasn’t as good the second time around, as a matter of fact. I still haven’t had a smoothie with peanut butter or chocolate in it since then because I can’t disassociate it from the smell of my own puke lingering in my bra.
I learned an important lesson that. First of all, no one likes it when you puke in their backseat, even it’s an accident. Even though you did your best not to vomit on the back of their head. Second, always, always bring a FULL change of clothes when going somewhere for even one night. You never know when you’re going to barf on yourself.
So on that happy note, I'm just waiting for my man love to bring me some Jell-O and ginger ale as I watch my fourth episode of Stargate in a row. (Yes, Netflix, I AM still watching...) Living the good life. In my empty, echoing living room.