curly and the amazing technicolor yawn

Do you know what's awesome? When a wave of nausea about as high and powerful as the one that kills Tea Leoni at the end of that otherwise forgettable movie about a cataclysmic comet or asteroid or some other crap like that (not to be confused with that other otherwise forgettable movie about a cataclysmic comet or asteroid or some other crap like that starring Bruce Willis) sweeps over you quickly and suddenly while at work. Oh yeah, good times.

I was clicking away on the computer today when out of nowhere I started to feel like ass warmed over. I had hot flashes and my gag reflex was working overtime. And making matters worse was the accompanying bout of I'm-about-to-puke panic I'm subject to every time I feel the need to chunder.

See, I don't know about the rest of y'all but I require privacy when things are going to violently shoot out of my orifices. As a result, I tend to work myself into a bit of a frenzy worrying if someone will dare enter the can while I'm in there depositing things in the toilet against my will. Anything other than pee that leaves my body during work hours is an unplanned and unwanted evacuation, believe you me. I can and will only vomit or take a dump under extreme duress.

Ridiculous shame issues and possible colon damage aside, it is also a desire to be considerate of others that contributes to this stage fright. When I yak, it's not a pretty sight. Or sound. I'm not quiet about it. I sound like a Marine with all my HOO-WAHS! Or do the Marines say HOO-RAH? Oh, who cares? My point is, I make lots of noise and if I'm going to suddenly have to talk to Ralph on the big white telephone and be sprawled out on the floor while whimpering and searching for the cool spot of tile, I'd prefer that my coworkers not be privy to this less-than-dignified display.

I gave my coworkers a polite explanation as to why I had to get the hell out of the office, sent a few IMs to my friends who would have been baffled/concerned by my sudden departure and got my ass in a cab as quickly as my jelly-like legs would take me.

Fortunately, my puke remained "on deck" while I was in the car. When I got home, I flung off my coat, opened up the bathroom door and let 'er ride. As a result of this fortuitous timing, I have a lot of favors to repay God because I did an awful lot of bargaining with him while I was in the taxi. I've pretty much signed over my entire income to charity, gave up cursing, took up macrame and swore off being a bitch in exchange for a puke-free ride with lots of green lights and no traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge.

Fear not, dear readers, I had my fingers crossed during the renunciation of my bitchy ways. I'll fork over the cash and cut down on the cursing but I make no guarantees about being nicer. God's going to need a good lawyer to make that taxi-cab confession stick. Translation: My blog will remain consistently nasty and shrill. I was serious about the macrame thing though. Potholders and doilies for everyone!

Another loophole in my contract with God is that it wasn't the speediest of cab rides. He had me sweating it out at some points. For example, I could have really used some divine intervention during one particularly brutal traffic snarl in Times Square.

Admittedly, I didn't ask my driver to step on it nor did I inform him of my sickly state because if there's one thing cabbies fear more than, say, a passenger with a loaded gun, it's a passenger on the brink of a good barf. I know this because I and my touchy gag reflex have been shooed out of cabs by drivers who don't want to deal with the possible "present" I'd leave on the seat, floor and, on days when my aim ain't all that good, the window.

So, in the interest of securing and keeping a cab, my driver was not made aware of what evil was lurking in my belly. If anything, he must have thought I was having contractions because anytime a pukey feeling hit, I busted out some Lamaze breathing. Not that I've ever gone to Lamaze classes, mind you, but I have watched enough sitcoms to know the whole "Hee hee! Hoo hoo! Hee hee!" routine. Alas, I did not have the other staples of all sitcom pregnancy plots at my disposal -- boiling water and clean white sheets -- to complete the scene.

Question: Why did the sheets always need to be white? Clean, yes, I get that. But why did the color matter? Would the baby not come out if patterned bedding was waiting on the other end? Did the thread count matter? Hmm... This might be something I need to explore in the next installment of The Alan Alda Sensitivity Project.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to test the limits of my tummy with some tea and toast. Wish me luck.