There are plenty of moms who nourish their children on a strict paleo diet. There are also plenty of moms who only feed their babies freshly pureed organic produce and grass-fed, cage-free protein. And somehow, I always end up having to sit by these moms when I'm handing my nine month old a trio-of-meat hot dog to gnaw on.
Jon loves hot dogs. And they heat up in 15 seconds in the microwave (oh did I just add deadly radiation to mix?). And babies can eat them without silverware. And they have lots of protein. And they are inexpensive. And the package proclaims to be "100% real meat." So that's something. The MEATZ are REALZ!
There is only one downside to hot dogs: my fingers smell like hotdogs for HOURS after I touch them. I can't really describe the smell except to say that it's salty. And processed. With a hint of old tennis shoe. I don't know why I had to ruin a good blog post talking about hotdogs. I guess I just had to get that off my chest.
Since this blog post is already ruined, let's talk about vomit.
Last night, I was sitting on the couch minding my own business when a hint of tummy cramp came over me. Like any sane person who believes unwaveringly in her immortality and wildly over-estimates her immune system, I completely ignored it. I then proceeded to eat four mini-Hershey bars (I'm sorry, I refuse to call them "fun" size - the only thing "fun" about that size is that you can justify eating four) and a bag of popcorn. Partial disclosure: I had just run four mines. Full disclosure: the fact that I exercised beforehand was a total coincidence, I would have eaten it anyway.
Surprisingly, popcorn and chocolate did NOT make my tummy feel better. The ache grew into full-on nausea in less than an hour. By this time everyone was sleeping and I was lying like death on the couch, suffering in misery all alone and unbeknownst to anyone else in the house. I changed positions and burped and thought I felt better. Then, just one second later, the intense need to vomit hit me like Donald Trump fighting for the last slot at the tanning booth. Oh god. I was gonna blow. It was uncontrollable. The only thing running through my mind was "find something to puke in." So I ran straight for the bathroom. And immediately puked in the......nope. Not the toilet. The sink.
What an idiot. I realized my stupidity even as I was erupting chocolate and popcorn. But, you know, I was mid-eruption. There was really nothing I could do. When I was finished, I hunched back off the counter and surveyed the situation. I felt slightly better. But I had a clogged sink. I will spare you most of the details and just say that clean up involved a plastic drinking cup and baby nose syringe. WHILE I was still nauseous. I've seen and done things that you would only expect to find in an episode of Dirty Jobs.
48 hours later, I'm finally feeling better. I've only eaten like seven pieces of toast in two days. Is it horrible that I keep having to bury the thought that I should try to get sick again right before my swimsuit-involved vacation next month? Because I can finally wear my skinny pants. And it only cost me a couple hours of naseau, one unpleasant eruption, and a sink full of vomit.
Oh and Dear Lord Baby Jesus take my soul if my husband ever finds out I puked in the sink. He once didn't talk to me for two days after I left his bath towel on the floor.