The weekend before last I was (wo)man down with food poisoning. My dear friend Mix [she is a chef at a well-known food market] brought food home from work that her staff had incorrectly marked. And instead of the chicken pie having been cooked on the Sunday, as was marked on the packaging; it had actually been made on the Friday. Noting this, we ate it on the Monday.
My stomach is sensitive at the best of times, and with my IBO and other digestive problems; eating a three day old pie did not do me any favours. Needless to say I spent more time in the cold bathroom that night than I did in my warm bed. I was not impressed, and neither was Star and Mix’s four kids who also ate from the
This weekend I was poisoned again. No dodgy pie this time, and neither can I pin the blame on illiterate staff of friends. This time I have to take full responsibility for waking up in a pool of my own vomit. Ok, who am I kissing, of course I’m going to pass the buck.
Damn you Strawberry Lips! And damn you Star’s girlfriends family for not warning me that its main ingredient is Tequila! You need only do a “Tequila” search of my posts to know why there are several very good reasons why I refrain from indulging in such devil’s poison. Read them at your own peril.
I was invited to Star’s girlfriends 18th Birthday celebration on Saturday night [the family have it in their head that I am some party animal!] and so Star, one of Mix’s sons and I headed across the road for fine dining and good wine.
Perhaps I arrived a bit early, or maybe din-dins took too long to be prepared; but I was already a bottle of Merlot down before the meal was served. And bearing in mind that I had hardly eaten the preceding week due to the food poisoning I experienced on the Monday; I was drinking on a very empty stomach.
After dinner a bottle of Olmega and Strawberry Lips came out. And totally forgetting that the pink drink actually contained Tequila; I opted for said bottle. Actually, make that plural, because Star’s GF’s mother’s sister and I polished off a bottle solo, and then proceeded to play down downs on the second.
At least that’s what I was told. I don’t recall much after the second shooter. I certainly don’t remember giving away my brand new pair of red fur gloves to my new best friend, stating that I had another shipment coming in the following week [WTF!] and thank god I have no memory of Mix’s son carrying me home.
I awoke on the Sunday morning to a putrid smell in my room, and when I could finally open my eyes I found myself lying in a dark pink mess of sick. Worse was to come.
For some reason I was naked. I have yet to ascertain whether Mix’s son undressed me on getting me home [please lord not], or did I derobe sometime in the night?
That was the least of my worries, when I was finally able to lift my head I looked around my room in absolute horror. It looked like a person had exploded in my bedroom, and my cupboard doors were covered with body parts and blood. As were the bedclothes [two sheets and a blanket] on the floor [how the eff did they get there?].
I was lying nude [as I’ve said] on my electric blanket [how I didn’t electrocute myself, god only knows] and even that was covered in chunks of human anatomy. Actually it was only Merlot, Pink Liqueur and potatoes; but truste me – that combination looks like something out of a horror movie.
My pillowcases and pillows were similarly stained and worst of all; my precious goose-down duvet was wet, stained and chunky. *sob*
Did I mention that I had to be at my brother’s place for my nephew’s birthday party at 10h00 and I still had to fetch Angel from a friend and take the girls to the Scout hall as they were heading to Harties for the day?
With the worst hangover of my life [and first one in many years] I fell out of bed and began the crime scene clean up. I wore a scarf over my face as the smell was so overpowering that had I anything left in my stomach, the contents would’ve joined those around my room.
I had to hand wash all my bedding and then lay it out on the grass to dry [my duvet was only fit to return to my bed yesterday – that’s four nights without warmth!] and one of my pillows is still wet because the damn feathers won’t dry!
I spent several hours cleaning my room – with sticks of incense in every corner to mask the awful sour smell. And once the bed had been stripped and all bedding was outside drying; I could finally get under a shower and wash my pink potato encrusted hair.
I’m never drinking again.