Thanksgiving...

Okay, so I lied. This post really isn't about last Thursday, because - in reality - last Thursday (a.k.a. Thanksgiving) was not all that interesting.

I mean, really. I woke up, ran the Turkey Trot (yes, all 8 miles), showered and...well...

...Ate.

...And ate...

...And ate.

Get the picture?
(See, really not all that interesting.)

I actually want to discuss the much more interesting day after Thanksgiving.

No, upon second thought, the day after Thanksgiving was not all that much more interesting than Thanksgiving, itself. Interesting just isn't the right word. In fact, interesting doesn't describe the day after Thanksgiving at all. No, no the day after Thanksgiving needs a whole NEW level of description. Something that cannot be summarized by a simple word (like interesting). It needs a whole sentence, a catch-phrase (if you will). Something that can capture my experiences, thoughts and emotions and put them into a neat little box - complete with gift-wrapping and a big, bright bow.

Yes, yes...that is what I want.

Now, let me see. How can I put this?

How about:

"I'm sorry...what?! Since WHEN can my body DO THAT?!"

Hummmm. Yes. That about sums it up.

Anyway...where was I?...ah, yes...the day AFTER Thanksgiving. A day that will go down in history as the day I almost died wanted to die.

And, no, I am NOT kidding. It was just that kind of a BAD day.

Curious?

Well let me tell you about it (just don't forget that this will NOT be PLEASANT in any way, shape or form. In other words, consider yourself warned):

So, on the day AFTER Thanksgiving I had to go to a formal party honoring one of my many, many, MANY cousins (I'm related to everyone. Just ask RR (a.k.a. NDT). According to her, my family tree is a wreath. Charming, huh...?!).

Since I was going to such a...ahem...genteel affair, I thought I should, you know, make an effort. Thus, I donned the appropriate ball gown, matching shoes, and color-coordinated make-up. My super-hot, super-sexy boy toy (uh...I mean, boyfriend), Trevor arrived clean and shaven - looking quite smart in his tuxedo. Yes, yes. We quite looked the part.

And so - as in fairytales - the princess and her beau were off to the dance.

Except in this fairytale, I am playing the princess. Hint, hint, wink, wink, nudge, nudge.
(This should be one of many, many clues that the evening does not go...uh...as planned.)

Anyway, my chariot (a.k.a. Trevor's Chevy Trailblazer) arrived at the ball at 8 o'clock - making us about half an hour (fashionably) late. The party was at the Dallas Petroleum Club, which is located way up high in the JPMorgan Chase Tower. Because of the Petroleum Club's location in the building, a very, very speedy elevator is required to "people move" the party goers to the 40th floor. And this is where things started to get...interesting.

Flashback for a moment...

...While I was getting ready for the super-swanky affair earlier in the evening, I was suddenly consumed with hunger. Unfortunately, my cupboard was bare EXCEPT for a half eaten bag of potato chips and an Organic Fiber Bar (lemon flavored, of course).

Now, I know what you are thinking and I whole-heartedly agree that eating ANYTHING with 14 grams of fiber just hours before you are scheduled to attend a black tie event is a BAD idea. However, after I ate a few of the potato chips I was feeling rather bloated and - quite frankly - guilty. Eating the fiber bar seemed like a good way of...well...flushing the potato chips through the system.

Yeah, well, hindsight is ALWAYS twenty-twenty...

Anyway, getting back to the story, it was on the elevator ride up to the 40th floor that I first started feeling...whoozy. But I figured that I would feel better once my ears popped (I was in denial).

Trevor, being the wonderful date that he is, thought it would help if I had a glass of red wine to...you know...relax me (which it did). In fact, the red wine relaxed me SO much that I decided that I would tell everyone about the battle raging in my stomach between the fiber bar and the potato chips (yes, I only had one glass, thank you!). Most people just smiled politely and moved on. Others laughed at me and my self-induced predicament. But one lady offered to give me advice (big mistake). All I can say is that NO ONE should EVER take the advice of a senile, close-talker who smells of mothballs.

And, yes, hindsight is STILL twenty-twenty...

So, I listened as Ode-de-Mothballs explained to me that milk, cheese and essentially everything dairy has the opposite effect of fiber. Me (being me, of course) thought that this new tidbit of information was absolutely BRILLIANT, and immediately excused myself from Senora Mothballs to go join Trevor in the food line (where I promptly ordered him to pile Brie cheese, crackers and olives onto his plate).

Once Trevor's plate could hold no more, we began the process of looking for an appropriate place to sit down and...well..eat. This is always a trite difficult at a formal ball because there are hundreds of people - all dress to the nines - of which only a select few you actually want to sit with (or see or talk to, for that matter). Because of the fiber problem, I really didn't want to sit with anyone - at least, no one that might be within "odor" range (incase the so-called battle in my tummy produced a much uninvited and unexpected...smell).

So, we ended up sitting at a crowded table (of course!) full of people my own age - who all, up to that point, thought I was reasonably normal (and knew nothing of my apparent lack of judgment when it came to all things fiber and potato related). They all just sat there and watched - with a look of vague curiosity - as I consumed slice after slice of cheese. Thank goodness that I had enough sense to spare them the details (and reasoning) behind my sudden need to dairy-induce constipation.

Never - during this entire episode - did it dawn on me that it might be...unwise...to try to trump a fiber card with a cheese card. I consider myself lucky that I didn't explode on the spot.

As you might guess, it didn't take long for the battle in my stomach to become an all out war. And by "war", I really mean "REBELLION". Thus, after a brief (half hour) party intermission (spent, of course, in one of the stalls in the lady's restroom), I emerged and informed Trevor that it was time to leave the ball. Like, NOW! I was rapidly turning back into a (rotten) pumpkin.

It was 9:45 PM.

Trevor, because he is SO wonderful, didn't complain at all about having to leave the party early. He didn't even make fun of me as we road the elevator back down 40 floors to his champagne-colored SUV.

We made it back to my house by 10 PM - just in time for me to change out of my ball gown before I (and I am quoting season 7, episode 4 of the sitcom FRIENDS here), "visited a little town a south of throw-up".

So, yeah, that was fun.

It was especially fun because my wonderful, sweet and handsome boyfriend, Trevor, was in the next room trying not to hear all the...noises...that are famously associated with that particular bodily function.

So, again, that was reallllllly fun.

But just when you think that it can't get any worse...it does (because I'm blessed that way).

Anyway, I'm sitting on the pot and having problem "A", when I suddenly realize that I'm going to have problem "B"(yes, I was traveling north to that aforementioned town). So, I desperately reached for the trashcan (which, thank goodness, had a liner in it) and grabbed it just in time to be reintroduced to the potato chips, fiber bar and Brie cheese.

Fantastic.

So, there I am, sitting on the pot having problem "A" and problem "B" simultaneously (which, before this evening, I didn't realize could happen at the same time. Boy, was I naive), while problem "C" (a.k.a. my handsome prince) is knocking at the bathroom door in an effort to inquire if everything was okay.

Yes, folks, it was during that moment that I actually wanted to die. My body was literately exploding from both ends, and I just didn't see how death wasn't an realistic option at that point. It felt like I was going to die regardless, and I was hoping for something along the lines of "sooner than later" in the timeline that I was sure was dictating the end of my life. In fact, I was actually wishing for death, because no creature should ever have to suffer like that. I think I actually asked Trevor to shoot me at one point. From my perspective, it was the only humane thing to do.

But, alas, he didn't have a gun.

He also said something about how much he loved me before he got in his car and left on a Pepto-Bismol and Gatorade run.

God love that boy.

So, in conclusion, I would like to publicly state that I am THANKFUL for surviving last Friday night (and Saturday and Sunday). I'm pretty sure that I really had the stomach flu (the fiber bar, potato chip and Brie cheese didn't help anything, but I don't think that self-induced food poisoning lasts for three days).

I find it somehow curious that people, in general, aren't more THANKFUL (like on a daily basis) that they are not - at this very moment - having both problem "A" and problem "B" simultaneously. We should all be thanking our lucky stars day in and day out...

In fact, I might just announce next Thanksgiving - at the dinner table - that I am THANKFUL for not having those two problems at that particular moment.

I really feel as though I've gained some perspective, here. Don't you?!

~ THE END ~

(well, almost...)

I am also thankful for my adorable dog, Gypsy Kitty, who had "sympathy pukes" early on Saturday morning. She barely slept a wink all night, because she was SO worried about me. The whole time, while I was...uh...kneeling before the porcelain throne, Gypsy Kitty was at my side - licking my arm in (apparent) support.

Then, in the wee-morning hours - mere seconds after I had finally (and mercifully) fallen asleep - Gypsy Kitty jumped up on my bed and frantically started licking my face. Alarmed, I jumped out of bed and heard the unmistakable...

...grunt, grunt, grunt...

...of a dog on the verge of throwing up.

"Oh, no! Gypsy! Quick! Outside! Let's go outside!"

And, for the first time EVER, Gypsy made it outside and puked in the grass (instead of on the rug next to my bed)!!

If that isn't the very definition of "thankful", I don't know what is (personally, after a long night of blowing chunks, the last thing I want to do is clean up doggie barf. Plus, quite frankly, how often can you find a reason to be thankful for vomit?)!!

~ THE END ~
(really...)