i heart my bucket, or food poisoning sucks

Friday night I did something of a world tour. I met a friend in Mexico (Maryanne's on the west side) for nachos and a margarita. Then I went on a date in Japan (Kiku Sushi in Park Slope), with a stop in Australia (a glass of Shiraz at Total Wine Bar in Park Slope) to top it off.

I fully acknowledge this was stupid.

However, several hours later, the evening ended with a long, cold, lonely walk home (past the projects alone -- thanks, Awesome Date!) and I felt so garbagey that I had to call Thea, who (blissfully) is up at all hours.

"I feel like ass."

"Maybe you should go home and have a nice vomit and go to sleep."

"That might work, if I were anyone but me." (I have a SEVERE aversion to barf.) "And I don't really feel like I have to barf."

"Well, just see how you feel when you get home."

"Ok, I will. I'm getting in this cab now, I'll call you tomorrow."

I hang up, stash the phone in my purse, and notice that my teeth are still chattering, despite the fierce Indian heat of the cab.

"Have you ever been to my home country?" asks my oh-my-god-is-he-inebriated? cab driver.

"No, no," I sigh, "never really had the money for a trip to India." (Please shut up. My tummy hurts.)

"It's very beautiful," he says, turned around so he (and his elbow) are pointing at me through the bulletproof window. "You should go sometime."

"The light's green." I point out.

Don't make me go to India, pleeeeeeeeeease, says my tummy.

He turns around and drives, silently, until we hit the next red light, at which point, he asks me out. "Maybe we could talk more about it and I could show you some good places."

I don't have the heart to tell him that a) I feel like death on a stick right now and b) curry smells like armpit to me, and the thought of eating armpit at this point in time might actually be enough to make me ralph in his cab.

"I don't think my boyfriend would like that very much," I say, thanking god for the sweet, lovable, imaginary man at home who is going to hold my hair, if I do end up yakking up the planet I've consumed.

I get out of the cab, still shaking with cold, and get into my house. Before stripping into pajamas, I try drinking some water, brushing my teeth and washing my face. I set up the obligatory bucket (which is like a leprechaun of the tummy -- just enough good luck to keep you safe) and finally put on my pjs.

But it's still really fucking cold. And there is a monster in my intestines, starting to kick.

I put the heating pad on my feet. Still cold.

I take the bucket with me to the bathroom for a festive interlude.

Still cold.

I put on my fleece housecoat (very sexy!) get back into bed with the heating pad and try to fall asleep. It would have been much easier if I were able to stay still instead of thrashing about wildly with cold.

And I'm terribly dehydrated. (Just ask my pruney fingers)

So I cross my kitchen floor as if it's a game of hot lava -- except it's more like a game of frigid ice floe. Who knew my kitchen was in the Yukon? I grab a bottle of water and my bottle of root beer and bring them both into bed with me, with hopes of warming them up. Where the hell is my imaginary boyfriend??

And then, laying there in the dark, unable to sleep, the thoughts of food and barfing flood over me. You know how it is, you can only think about what you've eaten. Or food in general. Or barf. Or just awful nasty stuff. It's like a horror movie -- all you can remember afterwards are the scenes you most want to forget.

I turn on the radio, and listen to them talk. Until 8am. At which point, I'm finally warm enough to fall asleep. Luckily, my plans for Saturday don't start until 1pm.

I never actually barfed, but that bucket traveled around my apartment with me all night like it was my best friend. (Or my imaginary boyfriend.)

I have no idea what I ate (hell, it could have been any variety of things), but whatever it was, I hope Awesome Date ate it, too.

I mean, imaginary boyfriend would at least have walked me to the subway.