a different kind of three martini playdate
(two martinis, dry, with olives and a splash of hoodia gordonii)
the shoe was on the other foot this weekend, friends. mr nice guy did a little vigorous empathizing with his long-nauseated wife after work on saturday and he has only this to say: woman, i salute you!
as you may recall from the last paragraph, i work on saturdays. on this particular saturday, i managed to get out of work on the early side. there is usually not too too much to do on the weekends, and a couple of old high school chums were in town, so i figured i could cut out at around 4 pm, enjoy a cocktail with them and make it back to brooklyn in time for a barbeque i had been looking forward to. good plan, right?
so there we were, sitting around a swank midtown watering hole. they too had plans later in the evening so we quickly quaffed a martini. we chatted. life was good. the buzz came swiftly and happily. so swiftly and happily, in fact, that we all had another martini. mmmm, martinis.
i should note here that i hadn't eaten anything that day.
(except, of course, for the olives in my martinis).
then it was time to head home. i noticed how the escalator to the subway was a newer model -- one that went sideways as well as down. "neat," i thought. "ggrggl," replied my stomach. the ride home was largely uneventful. i listened to my ipod at an ear-melting volume hoping to stop my head from levitating off my body, which it apparently had decided to do. i found that resting my eyes made the stops go by much, much faster. also, i started sweating. man, it was hot in that subway.
ah. brooklyn. back to the borough of broken dreams. i emerged aboveground, certain that the cool night air would relieve my sweating. and staggering. i stopped in a bodega for gatorade, "justone gaydorrade pleesh." ah, just the drink that every slurring non-exercising-yet-sweaty staggering young man requires at 6 pm. surely hydration would take the edge off my hunger. "blppg," replied my stomach.
i walked past a mcdonald's. i walked in, thinking that my aggressive queasiness would be excommunicated if i ate a sloppy cheeseburger. the halogen lighting blinded me so i looked down at the pretty tile pattern on the floor, which was undulating. my feet decided that my stomach did not in fact want a cheesburger so they escorted me out of the spinning building and on home.
at the apartment i sat on the couch next to my lovely wife. she asked me how my day was. i replied using as few words in english--or any language--as possible in order to appear in complete control of all my rapidly depleting faculties. i lay down. the room did cartwheels. i sat up. i tried sweating a little. i thought maybe salivating would help.
mrs nice guy: are you ok?
mr nice guy: oh, finethangs. you?
mrs nice guy: you look worried or something.
mr nice guy: mnope.
mrs nice guy: are you sure you're ok? you look like you're really upset.
mr nice guy: i'm cool.
mrs nice guy: are you going to be sick?
mr nice guy: now that you mention it, that's a good idea ...
and i sprinted to the bathroom, vomiting with an (only in retrospect) incredibly impressive high-pressure burst. alas, the lid to the bowl was down so i had to flip it up mid-ralph. it was still in motion, only halfway up, when i disgorged ... resulting in the the unanticipated and not very delightful effect of splashing vomit back up into my face and all over the bathroom walls. olive chunks went everywhere. mrs nice guy tried to open the door. i panicked, afraid she would see the new coat of gastric juices that i had liberally applied to the walls of her bathroom.
mr nice guy: you don't have to come in. i am fine.
mrs nice guy: i was planning on taking a shower.
mr nice guy (feverishly mopping vomit off the tile floor): i don't want you to see me like this.
mrs nice guy: oh please. how many times did you see me throw up?
mr nice guy: bbllluuuuuuurhghgh
i puked again. instead of tasting like gin and olives, this time it tasted like gatorade. yum. mrs nice guy gets into the shower as i finish tidying up. and, for good measure, i puke again--mostly dry heaves. she opens the shower curtain to see the father of her unborn child flat on his back, his mouth open and his sweater freshly encrusted. this is, i can only imagine, an incredibly encouraging sight for a mother-to-be.
mrs nice guy: you look like a degenerate. how much did you drink?
mr nice guy: [weeps silently]
she took excellent care of me: putting wet washcloths on my neck, helping me into bed, rubbing my shoulders. she was a champion. i slept from 8 pm till about 10 the next morning, convinced that the saucy barmaid had slipped me a roofie.
sufficiently chastened (unfairly over-chastened, some might argue), i made breakfast the following day, a lovely sunday morning at home. mrs nice guy hugged me and said "if i had gone into labor last night, i would have had to fucking kill you."
ps: funny, a kind reader ('sup misfit, holla!) just recommended a book called 'the three martini playdate' in the previous entry's comments section. this actually is a book i own. but it is a book i no longer plan on reading. it is, in fact, a book i now plan on burning.
pps: what the fuck is hoodia goordonii?