I don’t create great stories; great stories create me.
It was early December. I had been very, very casually fraternizing with a guy who I won’t refer to as a gentleman because he doesn’t deserve the title. At the time, though, he seemed magical (don’t they all?). Learned, cultured, put-together, and had more on the ball than most. The fact that he opened our first date with broadcasting to me how many outfits he had gone through before deciding on what he had on was overshadowed by his overall charm. The fact that the following list was what he shared with me in regards to what he first notices in a girl was also overlooked because I’m dumb: eyebrows, teeth (not smile), denim, shoes, and presence. In that order. I don’t know, guys. Sometimes I’m just blatantly unsmart.
On our (what I didn’t know at the time to be but was) final date, poor decision after poor decision was made. No dinner, just drinks. But not just any drinks either — wine. Two bottles of it. That’s one bottle per person in case you needed clarification. All this lightly coated with a meek artisan cheese board. If you’re reading this and scoffing at my weakness re: finishing one bottle of wine to myself, I apologize for not being more of a lush but one bottle of wine ingested into my system is enough to give me the spins while out in public with my eyes wide open. And that’s exactly what happened.
Spins. Across the table from this guy. In public. Completely conscious, sitting in the upright position. These are the moments in which I thank whoever’s in charge of my reaction to copious amounts of alcohol because whoever’s in charge blessed me with the ability to not be an obvious drunk. At least not to someone who’s only been out with me a few times.
So there we sat. Me spinning. Him probably fine because I picked up on some low-key alcoholism from this guy early-on. I breathed a quiet yet heavily-coated-with-wine sigh of relief when he asked for the check and wondered to myself how the hell I was going to not die or embarrass myself between getting up from the table and going home. And there was no way I wasn’t gonna make out with this guy, so feigning a functioning level of drunk was imperative.
We get back to my home. I let Cece out to pee while he makes his way inside to settle in for what he doesn’t know is going to be one of the most drunken necking sessions in United States history. Things ensue. Sexy things. Said sexy things come to an end. Him spending the night is an unspoken mutual decision. Goodnight’s are said. Lights are turned off. Bodies are laid down to rest. And that’s when I realize…
HOLY SHIT I’M GOING TO VOMIT.
And not your expected, run-of-the-mill vomit either. It was one of those waves of nausea you know is going to end really poorly for you and anyone witnessing. It was the type of nausea that overtakes your soul, seizing you in its unrelenting grip and letting you know who’s the captain now.
It was I-just-drank-an-entire-bottle-of-wine-on-an-empty-stomach-then-engaged-in-low-level-cardio-activity nausea.
Remembering that this douchelord had once lamented about having a weak stomach for anything blood, vomit, or injury related, I bolt upright realizing there’s no way I can make out with the porcelain throne since he’s within earshot. My bathroom vent is weak and barely muffles farts and no amount of running water is going to cover the noises that are about to explode from my body. Thinking on my brown-out feet, I throw on my robe and initiate operation: USE CECE AS A SCAPEGOAT TO GET OUTSIDE, NOW.
“Cece! Cease!” I panic-whisper into the black hole of darkness that is my bedroom.
“Cece. Outside? Pee-pees?” My whisper is growing more panicked as I feel the wine and Manchego start to creep their way upwards.
“I think she’s passed out,” offers Sir Idiot.
“CECE. OUTSIDE. NOW!” I barely get out the “now” as the vomit enters my throat, full throttle. She hears the desperation in my voice and snaps to, jumping off the bed.
We run to the front door together. I throw it open, Cece trailing right behind me.
“MOVE!” I demand of Cece. This isn’t about her and going pee-pees. It never was.
I fling my body off the front porch, landing on all fours in the grass. The scene that follows is what I’m sure inspired “The Exorcist” in another lifetime. What makes the situation even better is the fact that underneath my robe was nothing but me. So there I was, a young woman at 1am, crouching down on all fours in the dead of night, in front of her house, spewing vomit, with her entire backside and all that comes with it hanging out for any neighborhood night owl to behold. It was a scene, man.
Of course, once it’s over, I feel almost sober and like a woman rebirthed into the world. Cece (who, by the way, never actually peed) and I head back into the house. I wash out my mouth and clean the streaks of wet mascara off my face and re-enter my bedroom business as usual.
“You okay?” Prick Face asks.
“Yeah! Cece just had to go.” Good girl, Cece, I think to myself. Good girl.
The morning dawns. Life is brighter. The world is sober as am I. I awake refreshed, ready to forget the horror of just hours prior. As Shit Head redresses himself and sits down in my living room to complete the ever-exhausting male task of putting on his shoes, I take Cece out to actually pee. Her and I head outside, not a care in the world before I spot last night’s incident staring at me in the light of day.
A PILE of neon pink. Neon. Pink. A miniature mountain of it. Just sitting expectedly in the grass where I left it, waiting to be dealt with.
I gasp as if I forgot last night happened or, at the very least, it did but the wine-vomit had somehow cleaned itself or been eaten by a stoned Raccoon overnight. I panic. The guy is right behind the front door of my home and could walk out any second once he’s gotten his shoes tied right.
In a moment all-too-similar to the previous night, I’m back down on all fours (this time fully-clothed and at least half-sober) and begin to tear up the Earth. Dirt, grass, twigs, leaves — I yank it all out of the ground with my bare hands like a rabid caveman trying to hide his hidden treasure. Except this isn’t treasure I’m covering up — it’s a small pile of neon pink wine vomit. My hands are covered in dirt and my fingernails resemble those of a miner, but the evidence is buried and that’s all that matters. I collect myself, walk back inside, casually wash my hands acting as if it’s just something I do every morning before I leave the house, and it’s all over. We’re safe.
The moral of this story? Eat before you drink and always remember: your dog is your best scapegoat.
That’s all she wrote.