I suppose I was asking for it. . . .

Last week I wrote a piece for The Frisky on how to ensure the world's worst Valentine's Day. I'm pretty bored with coming up with V-Day topics every year, so I figured I'd keep with my whole how-not-to schtick. "We need something fresh" is a frequent editorial request and while I don't blame them, it's impossible to come up with some Valentine's angle that hasn't already been covered to death. (If you can think of any, please let me know and I'll note it for next year.)

Not to mention that I, like many of you, have a lot of lousy Valentine's under my belts. It was only when I started dating The Large Greek that they stopped sucking. Despite his loud, blustery outside, he's a big mush underneath and always does his best to get romantico. This year he bought me some highly overpriced gourmet chocolates in an amazing box designed by his friend Frog. (The box was the main reason for the purchase—one of the chocolates was made with OYSTER and I'm way more of a traditionalist than that.)

In turn, I got him this:

Yes, it's a garbage can. But not just any garbage can—it's a hands-free garbage can! You're probably thinking it's not the most lovey-dovey gift, but since we met, he has been bitching about the garbage can in the kitchen. I bought the original can because it's pink and matches my walls, but he hates it because you have to—eek!—touch it if you want to throw anything out. To show my love, I'm losing the pink and dealing with this fugly, gadgety thing instead.

So as you can see, our Valentine's Day started off as a thoughtful, traditional, almost romantical day. Unfortunately, it quickly morphed from a day of hearts and flowers into a night of unimaginable horror. And I feel like since I wrote that snarky, cynical V-Day story, I have no one to blame but myself.

PLEASE STOP READING IF YOU ARE IN THE LEAST BIT DELICATE AND/OR HAVE ANY ISSUES WITH DISGUSTING BODILY FUNCTIONS. REALLY—TURN BACK. DO NOT CLICK. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

Anyhow, after a rough Saturday night spent in a bit of belly distress brought on by a questionable burrito at dinner, Sunday started out fine. I had to cancel Chinese New Years plans because of work obligations, but I figured that once I was done with my copywriting, we could head out for a cozy dinner for two. Unfortunately, I just kept feeling crappier as the day went on.

My normal way of dealing with illness is to pretend it's not happening, but I didn't want to push it by leaving the house. I convinced Spyro we should just stay home and order some pizza instead. I didn't have much of an appetite, but I ate a little bit, had a glass of red wine, and watched Casablanca for the millionth time. 

Then it got bad. The pain from the night before returned, only about a billion times more intense. I lay in bed, holding my belly, and praying it would stop making all those weird noises. It was like there were a dozen drunk elves running around in my intestines. I started to sweat as the rumbles and gurgles grew louder. There are few things I loathe more than vomiting, so just I lay there, willing myself to retain the fluids that were starting to revolt inside me. Just then, Spyro got up to have a leisurely poop. 

Oh god.

Our bathroom is about three feet from our bed and when I heard Spyro let out what I will describe as "a bathroom noise," it triggered my gag reflex. At the same time I felt a little gas wanting to sneak out downstairs. I rolled out of bed and discovered that it was actually a value-added fart. I threw my butt cheeks into lockdown, jammed my palm against my mouth and made a mad dash for the kitchen sink. This proved to be Mission: Impossible as I sprayed vomit across the room, down the front of my shirt, into my hair . . . it was everywhere. On the bright side, due to the red wine and pizza, it was pink so that was kind of festive and matchy-matchy.

I hear the sound of Spyro flushing, which then segues immediately into the sound of him dry-heaving as he scurries his way to the far opposite side of the apartment. Do you remember the commercial for that Vince Vaugh/Reese Witherspoon movie where he starts to gag when the baby pukes on her? We rented it only to see that scene because that is Spyro's reaction to anything barf-related. Even a hairball from the cat sends him into dramatic stomach spasms. 

So imagine how cranky I am. It's two in the morning, I'm coated with my own upchuck, feeling like I am about to die, and I hear my boyfriend whimper that he "just can't handle this." As I mop up my own puke (note to self: he cleans up his own damn vomit if that day ever comes), he's plastered against the opposite wall, moaning about the grossness, only now he has the TV on so he won't be able to hear if I make anymore gagging sounds. 

The intestinal grossness continues from there, but I'll spare you. Let's just say I left this weekend a good ten pounds lighter than I started it. When I gave my friend Jules a more detailed rundown of what happened, intending to make me feel better, she had this to share:

[Lady Friend] reports that she and [Fiancee] went to a buffet for V-Day dinner, at which he ate his weight in creamed spinach and other delights -- then declared that they had to leave because he needed a "nump." Which is -- yes -- a nap and a dump.

A nump? While that is funny, projectile vomiting and sharts trumps a nump, don't you think? (Though I will immediately adopt "nump" into my vocabulary.)

When I told my friend Kiki (she of the Chinese New Years festivities) that I was glad I'd had to work at home and it hadn't gone down (and come up!) at her apartment, she assured me:

if your anal explosion happened in my apt, i would have made you go in the hallway to use my neighbor's toilet! but i would have given you your own roll of toilet paper and an us mag, because I am your friend.

My own roll of TP and an issue of Us? Now that's love.

Comments

[michelle goodman]

OH MY GOD! i'm sorry for your pain, but i shart-numped myself laughing so hard. i think you should just run this as your column next year. ;) xo

[rh]

"Added value fart"= you *"sharted".

*Best movie line ever.

[kc]

"LOL"

Which I never say.

[cha davis]

Well, there's your column for next year....

[Fab Eberhard]

Brilliantly funny and yet, oh dear, so painful to read. At least the colors matched.....it sort of makes me want to write about the trip to the vomitorium when my rictus became rectus: Red wine, steak, chocolate birthday cake, and ketamine . Happy VD.

[Kiki]

it's true, i am in love with you...and that garbage can spells love in so many ways!!!!!!!!!!! that giant greek should pat himself on the back for finding such a lady!

[grapes]

i was hoping, just a little bit, as i reached the end of the story that the shiny new garbage can played a role as a receptacle (for all that was ailing you)!

[Tiia Jones]

Hysterical! I was hoping the new Valentine's Day trashcan would play a role too (after all the foreshadowing), but maybe later.

The thing is, we can all relate to so much of it. The being sick part as well as the wanting it to be romantic and it not living up to expectatons. Well done!

Tiia
http://teacherintl.typepad.com/blog/