3-Jan-2007

I'm back.  Not dead, sadly, after the one-two punches this year has already socked to me, some of which I can talk about here, some of which I can't.  I suppose, instead of bitching, I should give major props and thanks to My Replacement, who has kept a close watch over me ever since, on Monday night, we disembarked from the plane, and she held my purse and coat while I ran for the bathroom at LAX.  You gotta love someone who watches you throw up in your hand (I literally pushed past everyone in line) and will still talk to you.  Then, she made sure I had a private puking spot outside the parking garage at LAX (don't go near the bushes outside Terminal 5), and offered to drive my car home, with her fiance following, so that I wouldn't have to worry about passing out behind the wheel.  All yesterday, she monitored my diet.  When I needed a ride home, she cheefully volunteered (as did Cliffhanger, who said she would forego Yoga, but I would owe her forever), and she didn't flinch when I said I needed to dry-heave behind El Torito.  She even logged a call to her fiance's mother, a nurse, to see what I should be trying to ingest.  "You have to try to drink something, because otherwise, you'll get dehydrated, and if you get dehydrated, your organs start to liquify," My Replacement explained.  Great.  Because I wasn't already queasy.  And as if that weren't enough, she offered to stay with me until the Designated Driver got home from work.  I am eternally grateful to her, and to the Designated Driver, whom I woke on her day off, via phone from the next room, to go buy me Gatorade.  Luckily, I believe the days of puking pizza, and, later when there was nothing left in my stomach, a substance that bore a great resemblance to mucus, are behind me.  And it's a good thing, because puking in public is really, really embarrassing.