James pays for streaming Netflix even though we probably don’t use it more than once a month because we watch cable and nothing I want on demand is ever on streaming Netflix. To rectify this, he chose a Danish dark comedy/crime movie, Terribly Happy, the other night. Murders take place, a bog where bodies get hidden (and cats are threatened to be thrown into) plays a role, and at some point the big city cop transferred to rural Denmark as punishment vomits. I don’t even remember the context, though it didn’t make Jutland look like a pleasant part of the world to visit.
Speaking of vomiting (in a less cinematic, though no less dismaying fashion) have you ever puked so hard you pissed yourself? I can now firmly say that I have. And it started at my company holiday party where I should’ve been celebrating, enjoying myself since things are not bad at work and I’m doing pretty well for myself lately.
The sweating, incoherence, and nausea came on fast, like those random inexplicable spells I occasionally get when I’m a car passenger to New Jersey. One minute I’m being a typical big mouth, saying too much in front of coworkers, a tendency I just can’t seem to tamp down despite the increasing demands for tight-lipped maturity in my life (this non-private forum is all I have left) next thing I know I’m about to heave my guts up.
I would blame alcohol, but by my standards I hadn’t ingested that much, only three drinks (maybe a poor combination—Manhattan, Chardonnay, champagne, and ultimately a glass of pinot noir, which I couldn’t drink because started literally throwing up in my mouth). I ran to the bathroom only to find a line. I heard a “I like your dress,” which was nice, and after the complimenter went into the bathroom, I puked all over the ground and down the front of my fancy emerald green Kate Spade dress, chunks gathering in the bow framing the collar. I played cool, cleaned up, and had to leave.
I only made it, and barely, two stops on the F train to Dumbo when I had to run onto the platform and heaved so hard that a visible stream of urine trickled leg to toe in my turquoise tights. I couldn’t get back on the next train to go the extra three stops to my neighborhood. Instead, I unwisely decided to walk the two miles home from Dumbo in heels because I was too scared to get back on a subway or hail a cab and I needed the air. Blisters ensued, the shoes were half-destroyed, and I woke up with severe pain in my left hipbone socket because I guess I am aged and can’t walk on tiptoes for 45 minutes straight.
There is no moral to this story other than that I should stick with flats and Old Navy clothing, only drink water, and never leave the house or talk to anyone.