Jan 25 2009
Plate Of Ketchup
Originally, I thought I’d use that title as a bit of a continued play on words over the last few days, but the evening’s events turned out rather more, er, “ketchuppy” than I expected.
I spent most of the afternoon hunting job opportunities for my lady: since I’m once again online for a while, all my regular emails arrived and, once I’d gone through three or four hundred of them, I checked through the appropriate jobs. there’s a couple of new opportunities there for her, which is great news. She was downstairs, revising for her interview again, but after a few hours her brain caved in and she decided to stop for the day.
Unfortunately, she decided to drink. Yeah, she’s struggling with the four-day cycle again and cutting it short. This is not particularly good news, especially since she’s also doing less exercise - definitely not good for her health. Still, she was in a good mood and we managed to spend most of the evening laughing about stuff. I even managed to avoid a couple of minor conflicts (thus preventing escalation to major conflicts) by laughing them off until she couldn’t help but join in the chuckling.
By about 9:00 in the evening, she was pretty blasted. Roughly two bottles of red wine gone, she’d missed her glass a couple of times while pouring and was starting to slur her speech pretty bad, but she was still cheerful and not as annoying as she could have been. Then it happened. Ketchup.
I don’t know if any of you have ever experienced projectile vomiting. Imagine, if you will, seemingly gallons of bright red liquid flying horizontally out of a person’s mouth: it’s pretty damned frightening, I can tell you. I’m just grateful she made it to the loo before she started. Honestly, I would never have believed the human body could contain that much liquid. It just went on and on, like someone emptying a washing machine by hand or something.
She went to bed afterwards, where I managed to get her to eat something simple to calm her stomach and gave her her meds for the night. She was pretty shaky and upset, as you can imagine, and spent some time apologising profusely. She was as surprised as I was by her body’s rejection of the alcohol and felt awful, especially since we’d been having a pretty good night. It was around midnight before she actually slept, then I got to spend half an hour cleaning red stuff off the loo. And the seat. And the floor. And the walls.
The most amazing thing? I still managed to cook myself dinner and munch happily on it, despite the quite remarkably disgusting display of biological ability I’d experienced.
