I am not quite sure where to begin. You know from recent posts that I have been dealing with a rash of incidents of the stomach bug in my house.  First my son’s friend lost it literally in my kitchen sink…I recounted that tale for you a few days ago.  I did not share the play-by-play account of poor Amelia’s bout with that same bug.  My husband was the best and sat on her bathroom floor with her while I sprayed room freshener and held my sweatshirt over my nose. I told you, I don’t do puke.

Oh but my turn soon came.

On Thursday, I went to my office in White Plains for a series of meetings.  We took a break for lunch and I shared a lovely grilled cheese with macaroni salad with my friend and coworker, Donald.  He is the grilled cheese King and I needed some comfort food because I wasn’t feeling quite right. The day went on without incident and with a Dunkin’ Donuts French Vanilla coffee in hand, I began the drive home.

Our monthly Zumba Ladies dinner was Thursday night.  The theme was “Siesta and Fiesta”: pajama party and Mexican extravaganza. Don’t ask how we got those two together. I have been looking forward to this all week. PJ’s and my friends: it doesn’t get better than that.

By the time I put my PJ’s on to go to the party I am in an all out sweat. My stomach is making noises like a rabid dog and in the back of my mind I am thinking that I need to go to bed. Now. I shake it off, grab a ginger ale and head over to Sue’s house.

As soon as she opened the front door and I smelled that Mexican food, that wave of nausea it me.  This is not good. I was so happy to see everyone and get the usual and customary hugs.  God that felt good.  Dierdre was here from Idaho, it was Meg’s birthday and Sue’s beautiful home was alive with friends and food and talks of Zumba, the pros and cons of bras and the sharing of odd quirks that we would never tell anyone BUT our Zumba ladies.

I sat there among them with all that food and suddenly it was time to go,  NOW.  I was able to get in our traditional group shot and I was off.

I feel that cold February air in my lungs and I hit the ground running. I quickly jumped in Fredrick for the ride home. (Fredrick is my husband’s car. His ‘thing’, a beautiful Audi that he babies the bejeezus out of.)

I am driving home sweating profusely reciting out loud, “I will not puke in this car, I will not puke in this car.”  Uh Oh.

I pull over into a dark parking lot, open the car door and I lost it.  Ugh.  I hate to puke and I don’t do well with it. I can’t stand the sight of it. So I keep the door open, put my foot on the brake, put  the car in drive and move forward about 4 feet so I don’t have to look at it and I lose it once again. Then I keep the door open, put my foot on the brake, the car in drive and move forward another 4 feet so I don’t have to look at it and I lose it again. This happens one more time before I am done.  There is a trail behind me that resembles a gangland slaying.  I clean myself up and access the damage.  Fredrick is spared but I cannot say the same for my favorite Ugg boots.I haven’t puked out of a car door since 1983 on the way back from a Rugby tournament in Plattsburgh.

I call home  to tell them I am on the way and share the events of the past 20 minutes. Chip and Amelia stay on the phone with me until I pull in the driveway. I am sweaty and smelly and I feel awful but I did not puke in that car. I crawl into bed and pray for the best. The rest is a blur.

It is almost midnight and I have slept more than 12 hours today. I continue to have to change the channel because all the commercials with food make me sick. Izzy never left my side and I am beginning to feel a bit closer to normal. Chip and the kids are in Syracuse hanging out with family eating great Italian food and chilling out.  My mom got the bug from Amelia and is out for the count. My sister came to take Izzy for a walk and exited this home of illness as quickly as possible.

Maybe I lost a pound or two. Maybe I will never eat a grilled cheese with macaroni salad again but nothing else has changed.  I don’t do puke, not mine, not anyone else’s.