This one's for the Girls

This blog is for all you women out there are having a bad Friday night... you may right now be stuck in an elevator... you may be on the blind date from hell and he's only half-way through touring you through his peanut brittle collection.... or you may be 3 acryclic nails away from losing your grip of your mobile home roof-top tv antennae and Earl Jr. is passed out on the sofa and can't hear your hollerin'... Sistas, this one goes out especially to you.

Before we get settled in however, I must advise any of you with a hairtrigger gag reflex that you might not want to read any further. Anyone with kids, or who can gut a fish, or clean their drain with their bare hands will probably be ok. The rest of you SCAT!

Ok girls, now that we're alone, let me tell you a little story. I'm going to be drinking a bit here, so I hope you'll excuse the spelling and grammer mistakes along the way...

So tonight, Andre and I had a lovely dinner date with my former roommate Yoka, her boyfriend Will, and some other faboo friends. I brought home a projection unit from work so that we could backdrop Baraka on one of her walls after the lovely dinner we were planning to make together. Andre was to meet me at the office at 5 so that Yoka and I could shop and then make the meal together. When, by 5 I realized Andre would be late, I called Yoka to apologize and to say that she would have to shop solo. Andre arrived at the office at, oh about 6 o'clock. He was wearing such a groovy outfit ladies... faded jeans, a circa 1985 adidas pullover and my retro brown leather waist coat... mmmmm ladies, yummy yum yum.

But other than the mod getup, he was looking not so good. Something was off. When I asked, he said he had a headache. He wasn't feeling too good he said.

Flashback to last night: I stayed in last night while Andre went out-on-the-town to the African lounge to have "oh, about 3 beers". I went to bed and could hear him stumbling around downstairs around midnight. 'hmmmm....' I thought 'he's just not used to being in a place without proper electricity'. This morning when we woke up he was lying in bed muttering something about feeling like he was a small forest unit. Not being karmically connected with small forest units myself, I asked him wtf he might be talking about. He said 'oh you know and then provided a description that would have brought a tear to Jack Keroac's eye. When I came downstairs, I found his belt on the kitchen counter. Ladies, I'm a working girl and don't have the luxury to spend my days pondering such existential subjects, so I left.

Ok, flash forward to 6 o'clock again. Andre is at my work, I give him a tour, he seems somewhat interested but also a little sick. He says he has been feeling lousy all day. He slept until 12:30 he said. He's probably just going to be a little quiet tonight. My mind races forward in time to when we are at Yoka's... I am with my friends: super wonderul International PhD students, archaeologists, cave divers, and water engineers -- everyone is laughing and interesting. I am coaxing Andre out of the corner of the sofa with a tea biscuit and interjecting interesting Andre-facts into the conversation at appropriate places to include him in the dialogue. In my mind it goes something like this:

Marwa: "the recent elections help reframe the old concensus on US-Israeli relations and possible the whole middle east. It's a popular acknowledgement that..."
Me: "Oh, did I mention that Andre is from the East... uh, the East coast of Canada actually".
Andre: Nods as though underwater

I shake off the thought and decide that all will be well. It has to be. Except that it isn't.

Andre and I drive towards Yoka's. It is clear that he's a bit out of it. I suggest stopping at a bakery to get him something to eat to settle his stomach. He buys a V8 and some Belgian doughball thing with some kind of meat in it. I don't know. I don't care. He also stops at the pharmacy to buy asprin and takes one when he gets back in the car washing it down with the V8. We drive off. I wonder out loud if we should be going to Yoka's. He wants to go he says. But he'll probably be quiet, he says.

My mind flash-forwards... we are at Yokas. People are talking, laughing. Andre is gesturing in weak handsignals to me that cast crazy shadow puppets on Yoka's wall.

I shake off the thought and signal to turn onto the onramp. Picking up speed an focused on merging I hear Andre say "uh, I don't feel well". My left eye darts to the 18 wheeler. My right eye darts to look at Andre. He's not kidding. Neither is the 18 wheeler. I'm stuck. I know what will happen beore it happens. Andre slow motion projectile vomits all over my car. I slam the brake, jerk the car to the right shoulder and hit the 4-way flashers. The contents of Andre's stomach have hit the dashboard, his whole body, my leather jacket and my Kate Spade NY purse. The contents of Andre's stomach are dripping off the passenger window that he didn't know how to open. The fetid vomit smell fills the car and I slam open the windows. Blessed diesel-exhaust highway air streams in and cleanses it. I stick my head out my window, breath in deeply, hold this breath and, not breathing, say to Andre. "It's ok. Everything is ok". He is apologizing. I have decided to appear calm, supportive and gentle. This is not how I am feeling inside. I am a shoe-in for an Oscar for best supporting actor in the barf-in-the-car-scene category. I steal a glimpse at Andre. He is covered in barf. He looks like a pedestrian who has been sprayed by a mean driver who soaked him with a mud puddle... except Andre is not covered with muddy water. Andre is covered with, well, chunks of Andre. I start to gag. I look away and put my scarf over my nose and mouth. I decide that if I can just get us home, I won't barf. It is -2 degrees. We drive 35km at 140km/hr with the windows open and me trying to think of puppies and butterflys and trying not to look at Andre. I imagine that the front seat is empty.... la la la, I am alone in the car. I am praying little prayers to God for traffic-free highways. The sound of the wind and the cars I whiz by roars luxuriously in my ears. I suddenly realize I have been driving this whole time in 3rd gear. I try to gear up and cannot. My barf-covered Audi is redlining and smells like vomit and gear dust smoke.

A miracle happens and my gearshift slides into 4th and then 5th. I relax a little.

There is nothing at home to clean this up with. As I pull off the highway, I say calmly to Andre "this will be uncomfortable and I'm sorry, but we have no cleaning supplies (OR WINE AND I'M PRETTYCERTAIN THATI'MGONNANEEDONE, MAYBE TWO, BOTTLESOFWINETONIGHT) and I need to stop for some papertowels". I pull into the convenience store parking lot, turn off the car and look at Andre under the florescent lights. He is completely covered in vomit.

I will stop describing this.

As I'm writing this, he's outside cleaning the car. I'm drinking wine. It's going to be a long night.

So ladies, whatcha wanna do tomorrow?