Something happened to me that, for the most part, would only happen to Lola.
I'm sick - nasty, achy, hurty, drippy nose sick. 101. 8 degree temperature sick. Wearing fleece pants, sweatshirt, terry cloth robe, covered with a down blanket and three others and still cold sick.
I tried to work this morning, but they sent me home with a laptop to get some work done. I started out feeling mildly sick this morning, but deteriorated rather quickly. I went from a temp of 97.6 to 101.8 in about 10 hours.
So I'm pretty fucked up this afternoon, lying half dead on the couch. The doorbell rings: it is the children next door, selling wrapping paper for a PTO fundraiser. I sit in the doorway and select the first thing I see, scribble my order on her sheet, and apologize to the children for being such a sniffly mess.
Three hours later, I'm mid-coma and there's a knock at the door. It's rainy, cold, and miserable, and this little girl is standing around bare foot on my porch. She tells me that she forgot to collect the money for the order; I ask her nicely to hold on so I can find my check book. Shutting the door, I hobble (I was boot-free today) to the bedroom, where I locate my checkbook just as a coughing fit hits me.
Now, I don't know about you, but the only times I ever puke are when I'm waaaaaay too drunk or when I cough so hard that my stomach explodes out of my mouth.
The last cough produced a vomity mixture of Cras-berry and mucus; I puked on the floor, on my robe, and on my checkbook. I run to the bathroom, horrified, and continue to vomit into the sink. This girl is still waiting on me, and I've puked on my checkbook. I'm fresh out of ideas about how to proceed. I hobble back to the door and tell her that I've just gotten sick all over my checkbook.
She is uncomfortable, but it is hard to tell if its the cold or my super-gross apology. She tells me that it's okay, she'll pay for the gift wrap. I tell her, no, no, that won't be necessary - just hold on one more minute. She continues to protest as I hobble back, find a new checkbook, and sit in the doorway while making this check out to her.
I apologize profusely, and she simply says, "Feel better!" and runs.
I would have run, too, but much earlier into the process.
What really kills me is that people are going to think I'm WAAAY weirder than the fucker who lived here before us (and I'm talking about a guy who carved a JESUS FISH into his fucking machete. And he left it behind for us..... wtf?).
Immediately after I explain to my embarrassing moment to Rob, I realize: this kind of nonsense would only happen to Lola.