Riding the Vomit Comet

Fact.  It doesn't matter who you are.  No matter how rich or poor.  How beautiful or homely.  How successful or powerful.  At some point in your life, you will violently vomit whilst simultaneously exploding diarrhea out your butt. 

Sorry Gisele, it's sad but true. 

This event occurred in my life, correction, my stomach, my nose, my mouth, my eyeballs, my intestines, and my anus, last Tuesday and Wednesday.

And, you know it was BAD, because I wasn't even excited about the prospect of weight loss. 

Tuesday through Wednesday, my body exhibited every possible color of the rainbow.  Red, orange and yellow first--the primary colors of dinner from Zocolo--which consisted of crawfish cakes, red bell pepper humus, and chardonay.  Then it was on to green and blue--the avocados from lunch, and the blue Gatorade I so stupidly thought my body could handle.  Finally, purple--the 'ole stomach bile. 

Wait!  You thought I was done?  Yeah, me too.  But noooooo.  Back to yellow again--apparently the color of my stomach lining.

By the way, I'm now out of trash cans in the entire upstairs of my house.  Because, with each color, came the need for a new trash can (I'd get so grossed out by one, that it would make me even sicker). 

You ask why couldn't I just puke in the toilet?  Because my butt was glued to it.  Tight.  The only time that it left the commode, was to lie next to it on the floor.  Ahhhh, beautiful, cool, tile floor.  It was so nice that I brought my pillow in there.

The only other time my butt left the toilet, was when one particular bathroom was so sufficiently defiled, thus inducing me to vomit again, which, in, turn required me to move on to the next bathroom.  [Those sounds you hear are moans to God begging Him to let me live. Nope, scratch that.  Death.  Please, God, sweet, sweet death.]

My husband vacilated between caring and pure horror at the sight of me.  That is, until the next morning. 

He was giddy when he found out that I needed a supository.  I mean, what is it with men?  He couldn't wait to tell me that I had to stick something up my butt every 4-6 hours as needed for nausea.

Honestly, at that point, I'd stick my car up there if it would make me feel better.  But, honey, I could do without your sheer enjoyment at the prospect of it.

Thankfully, Wednesday came and went, and I'm back to the land of the living.  Whether it was a virus or something I ate, I don't know and don't care.  However, when I die, if I wind up in Hell, I know what it will consist of: one toilet, one trash can, and an eternity of chucking and cha-cha-cha-ing.  At least Jude Law will be in the stall next to me...