Last night was supposed to be the night my first long essay was workshopped in Advanced Nonfiction Writing. I was also to lead the discussion on Sara Suleri's "Meatless Days."
What's all this "supposed" and "was"ishness about?
Well, my friends. I convinced Noah to arrange for a babysitter and come with me for moral support. We loaded into the (newly repaired) HHR, picked up some dinner, and hit the road. Me and that car? We're not getting along so well lately. About halfway to school, moral support turned into barfing support. I have no idea what happened--something I ate yesterday? So the poor guy soldiered on to G'boro, handed in my assignments for me, and drove me back home, cold air blasting on my face the whole time. Then he had to drive to his parents' house and pick up the baby.
I feel totally fine, and have since a few hours after The Incident.
Any theories? And DO NOT say pregnancy. That is NOT it.
The only thing I can think of is that two days ago, Noah suggested we eat at this Mexican restaurant in town where we ate as a family just before everyone--me, Noah, his parents, and his brother--got violently ill. Of course, I rejected the idea. Perhaps I'm now allergic to even the mention of the place.
In the meantime, we've decided to name the car The Vomit Comet.