Monday, December 22, 2008


It's 2:30am and I just threw up.  Blegh.  Why is this blog-worthy?  Let me start at the beginning.

Coco, Coco's mother (who is just as fabulous, if you can imagine), and I went to a party at our friend Andrea Louise's house tonight.  As promised, there was plenty of Jack Daniels & Diet Coke.  After the three of us were eventually kicked out, I honestly think I passed out in the nanny-mobile, sprawled out over Dash's booster seat.  I remember summoning everything within me and briefly perking up when Coco's mother says something like, "You have to catch a fox with a cage."  

"Wait, what??  How do you even know that??"        ... but then I was out again before I heard any story.  I'm sure it involved a fox, a cage, and a subsequent stole though.  

So flash forward to 2am.  I know I'm going to vomit, it's just a matter of when at this point.  When we got home a few hours earlier, I was able to at least partially get into pj's.  What this means is that my boots, dress, and bra are off, but my spanx and tights are still around my calves.  I peel those off and I'm down to just an oversized tee-shirt and my underpants.  Which is totally acceptable for pajamas ... if you're staying in your room, which I'm not.  

It is quickly apparent to me that I am not going to be able to just grip my pillows tight and get through this from the comfort of my bed.  So first I lay on my bathroom floor for awhile.  Then I get one of Trixie's small person chairs and just sit in front of my commode, waiting for the magic to happen.  I remember thinking this was a much less shameful position than head actually in commode, hands desperately gripping the sides.  My first foray out of the basement my quarters is sprinting upstairs to get a glass of water and a trash bag.  But all that sprinting makes me sicker so then I have to lie down in the guest bathroom upstairs.  

Now, on a typical night I would probably rest assured that I'm going to be roaming the house, hoping to vomit, in relative privacy.  However, I know that tonight Bobby Habibi is getting home from a recent oil-excavating trip so he is potentially a problem.  

But I get through this excursion Bobby-free, so now I'm just laying in my bed with the trash bag tied to my side table.  This comes in handy after about 20 more minutes of me crying and moaning "Maaammmmmaaaaa....." (even if my mother is 1000 miles out of earshot, it makes me feel better).  I finally puke.  

And here's where it gets really good.  Since I've done the deed in a garbage sack, I have to get rid of it immediately as I obviously can't let it sit anywhere.  But since Monday is garbage day, our big garbage cans are not in the garage, but out by the street already.  

After several minutes deliberation, I head outside in my snow boots, underwear, tee shirt and giant purple wal-mart coat.  Picture it. 

Happy Monday, y'all.  

**Incidentally, today's use of the word commode is in honor of my mother, who I believe is one of the last people on earth to use such terminology.  


  1. Oh, what a beautiful picture you paint with your words, Nanny.

  2. Have I not told you that Jack Daniels and Coke is the devil's brew? Even though it is a southern delicacy, our fragile Garcia constitutions cannot handle it. Stick with vodka and gin. (My mother would roll over in her grave if she heard me giving you advice on alcohol consumption.)Remember, throwing up is never lady-like.

  3. I just said commode yesterday. I blame my Missouri-born grandmother.

  4. you are brilliant haha. my mom actually uses the word commode too. what is it with mom's?

  5. No, no, no. This is horrifying. There is nothing worse. But then to have to walk it out to the can practically naked in the cold? Not good. My sympathies.