At any rate, after a snap decision to go to the Dominican Republic with my BFF, with Husband’s approval and contentment, we found ourselves headed to the airport, two best friends ready for sun! Thank heaven no one else was on the road at 3am, because holy cow, BFF and I were stupidly giddy as we sang every song that came on the radio.
When we got to the Park N Fly, it was actually an act of KINDNESS that made me order the Silver line of car detailing— I knew they wouldn’t be able to get my car clean with just the bronze package, and I figured if it was the Silver, they wouldn’t feel hopeless and depressed by Wednesday because the mess was still unconquerable.
There was a week of sunning, swimming and singing (in no particular order) for us. Gosh, there’s something so incredible about going on a vacation with your BFF. We laughed, analyzed our lives, sang alternate lyrics to pop songs, giggled at the banana hammocks (ok, that was just me— and I wasn’t being mean, I love them so much that it makes my whole day to see all the pointy bits jiggling my direction).
Where was I? Ahh, yes.
BFF: Hey, I’m going to get a drink. Which one would you like?
Me: All of them.
Random Guy Nearby: I like the way you think. I’m gonna be your friend.
BFF: I forget how hilarious you sound to people who don’t know you.
Me: You’re preachin’ to the choir. ... wait a minute ...
So the week was amazing. I don’t think I got very tanned because I literally was in the ocean swimming all day. I left to eat and … well that’s pretty much the only reason. It was awesome. I love the salt. I love the water. I think in a past life I was a dolphin. Or maybe in a future life. Whatever. I came, I swam, I conquered.
When we finally returned to the Park N Fly, 8 days later, at 2am, BFF and I were refreshed, happy and HOLY SHIT my car was actually clean!
I know it was worth at least double the Silver cost to get the goldfish, straw and glitter out of the trunk alone. Into the car we zoomed, before the cleaning staff could demand hazard pay. We made it to Guelph (where my BFF resides) and I decided I’d catch a few snores before hitting the road to Chatham.
At 8am, I awoke, because I think my BFF, who is gracious, and wonderful and kind, MAY have had enough of my snoring the last 8 nights; she decided to move bowling balls around. Taking the ALWAYS subtle hint, I hugged her, thanked her, and bid myself adieu.
I missed my exit (I was rapping "Bust-a-Move") and hustled to the next exit-ish place and realized I needed gas.
I filled my tank. I put the key in. Cecil wouldn’t start.
Confused, I took out the key, looked at it thoroughly, and attempted to start the car again. Nothing. In fact, this time, the whole dang dashboard lit up like a friggin’ Christmas tree.
Well.
So I put Cecil in neutral and coasted out of the gas station using Flintstone power and sheer will. Mostly feet.
I called CAA, who agreed to tow me to the nearest mechanic, and I called BFF because, well, frankly, I was cold (still wearing my clothes from the flight home) and hungry (I was kinda planning on hitting somewhere after I got gas) and a little lost (without Gloria, the GPS, I have no clue where I am and she only works when Cecil does, apparently).
BFF, kindly, graciously, wonderfully showed up with coffee, and a sandwich that I consumed without chewing. She took me to the mechanic and waited with me until the car showed up and then graciously, kindly, wonderfully invited me to wait for the diagnostic at her house.
BFF: And, uh, like, maybe you could, like, take a shower.
Possibly, I stank.
I got to her house, watched my clothes as they walked themselves downstairs to her washer (I definitely stank.) and hopped in the shower. I wore one of her meditation blankets as a dress for several hours once I realized the only clothes that I had on me were the ones that had literally been on me. The rest were back with Cecil, in my suitcase, in the trunk which was in the shop.
BFF left to run some errands, I hung out and … well, I decided I’d take a nap until the shop called. Hey, when you get an unexpected extra day of vacation, no matter the cost, you must profit from the boon.
My clothing dried, and I napped. Life felt great. Well, except something felt a little off in my tummy, but that was probably anxiety (from travel) or anxiety (from forgetting my anxiety med, oops) or anxiety (from my car breaking down and its potential cost) or just that the sandwich wasn’t sitting well.
But, by 3pm, I had a car in working condition, I had clean clothes, and I smelled terrific. In fact, for the first time in a very long time, Cecil and I both looked and smelled amazing. Neither one of us had dried food stuck in weird spots, and both of us were eager to get back to the family.
This is where the commercials come on because you know life is so perfect that shit is about to go sideways, and the TV people cleverly cut to a commercial so as to keep you on the edge of your seat. Unless I’m in Days of Our Lives, of course, because then I’d be picking up my clean car in my clean clothes, smelling clean for the next 4 months.
Some days I wish I lived in a Soap Opera.
For instance, did you know that just outside of Woodstock, while you are roughly 1.5 hours from your home in Chatham, there is a farm? A farm with some sort of pig monument erected that is, ironically, made from thousands of pounds of cow shit? And when a nose, which is attached to a tummy that is already not thrilled to have been put through all sorts of unexpected, and expected anxiety, gets a whiff of the great Pig Monument, horrible, terrible things start to happen?
In the far left lane, travelling 120kms/hr, a small, curly tail of cow shit smell crept into my car. The green curly stench tickled the right nostril and then the left, ever so faintly, but enough for me to feel my jaw tighten.
JAW TIGHTEN. Oh fuck. Oh no. I swallowed thickly and started to sweat. I quickly looked out of my side mirrors and put on my blinker. I swallowed again and clamped my teeth down on my lips. Nothing. No. Nothing was—
DRY heave. Sweet baby Jesus.
I changed lanes and, in a move that Ricky Bobby himself would envy, got myself to the side of the road while I dry heaved twice more and then fucking puked all over the steering wheel.
Oh, that’s nice. I puked on the steering wheel. Oh, and it splashed all over my lap. OH, and now the scent of fresh puke is making me puke more. Oh, and I can’t get out of the car because the fucking seatbelt is holding me like it’s the last slow dance of prom.
Jesus take the wheel.
I barf a full third time before I just swing my door open and hang my head out. Guts sprayed all over the shoulder of the road while truckers changed lanes so the splashes wouldn’t get on their paint jobs.
Finally I got the wrenched seat belt off and got out of the car. I puked a lovely trail from the driver door back around the car and over to the passenger side door before I realized that with every heave, I was also pissing my pants.
Oh.
I could've done without that, vagina.
I am literally a hot, fucking mess. Truckers are looking HORRIFIED at me as they whiz by. I heave and pee, puke and piss until there’s literally nothing left in my body.
I stumble back to the car.
It looks like chicken noodle soup cans exploded in there. I am covered in All. The. Bad. Things.
Well, except shit.
I haven’t shit my pants yet, so not everything is lost.
From the side of the 401, I text Husband.
Me: Fuck. I just puked all over myself.
Husband: WHAT???
Me: You read right. I’m barfing my guts out all over the 401.
Husband: WHAT?? WTF?
Me: I dunno. I just started barfing and every time I barf, I piss my pants. I smell like a hobo.
Husband: ???
Me: I think the universe doesn’t want me to have a clean car.
Husband: Possibly. what happened?
Me: I dunno. I just started puking. Everywhere.
Then I couldn’t stand the stench anymore, and remembered I had Grapefruit Perrier in the trunk. Huzzah! I opened my suitcase (of sweaty, stinky, salty, funky clothes from the vacation) and grabbed a pair of yoga pants that probably smelled as bad as me already. I opened the fizzy water and poured it on the pants. I began mopping up the puke from… the front seat. I gagged only a few more times, (this time I sat on a scarf I found, which mopped up the extra pee— also how much f-ing pee is there in a bladder? Like, shouldn’t I have been like a schnauzer at the 50th fire hydrant?)
As an aside:
I’d love to know what you think is worse: puking all over yourself, your clean car, and the 401, which simultaneously pissing your pants, OR having to mop up said mess so that you can continue to SIT IN YOUR VILE CLOTHING for the 1.5 hours home.
I honestly have no clue what the correct answer is.
Me: 10 truckers just drove by and seemed horrified and saddened by what they saw.
Husband: You’re the sexiest thing they’ve seen all day.
Me: That is awesome and worse at the same time.
Husband: Are you ok though? I’m worried.
Me: I’m at exit 238. I’m ok. I’ve stopped puking and almost done mopping. I’ll text you when I stop at London.
Husband: Stop for what?
Me: Oh. Right. I can’t stop. I smell like 3 hobos died. I’ll see you in a few hours.
Husband: If you pull over and text me at the off-ramp, I’ll have a shower ready for you when you get home.
Me: Thank you. You’re amazing.
Husband: Just be safe. Love you.
I drove the last leg of my puke-tastic voyage with the windows down until I couldn’t take the cold anymore. Then I’d put the windows up, thaw out my pants (which, when warmed left a new, wonderful treasure to behold), and I would put the windows down again just before I’d start to gag. Again.
Oh, and joy of joys, I found out quickly that I had puked so hard into the steering wheel that I broke the cruise control. It's like a Chris Farley movie.
I came in the house and the kids ran up and stopped about where the wall of funk hit their nostrils and smiled the “I just pooped on the floor” smile I remembered from their potty training days.
Kiddo #2 said, with his sleeve by his nose, “Momma, it’s great to see you. But maybe you should have a shower first. Or now.”
Kiddo #1 plugged her nose and said, “We missed you. Sorry you uh, barfed all over yourself.”
Kiddo #2: Why does it smell like pee too?
Me: Because every time I barfed I peed my pants.
Kiddo #2: DAD! You didn’t TELL US THAT!
Kiddo #1: I think grown-ups aren’t supposed to do that, brother.
Kiddo #2: Oh. Uh, here’s a kiss (he blows me a kiss). Uh, I’ll give you another one like, after you, uh, shower.
I removed my clothing like it was on fire. Actually, that’s a good idea for it. I ask Husband to bring a lighter. He tells the kids to go get me a towel and, from several feet away, says “Well, I was hoping you’d get naked immediately after you got back, uh, but this isn’t quite what I was thinking…”
I giggle. I groan. I walk to the bathroom and into the hot shower. I shout “Don’t forget to put the shoes in the washer, too. They were just buckets at the ends of my legs!”
Welcome home.
After a week of bliss and peace, I think the universe just wanted to make sure I really wanted to be here.
It's gonna take a whole lot more than that to keep me away.
Well, not a lot more.
Like, Universe, uh, if you're reading this, uh, I wasn't daring you.
Promise.
