The promise at the bottom. Ahem. I have a note from my mother. Or my doctor. Or Charlie. Yeah, Charlie. I’ll blame it all on Charlie.
Barring more unforeseen gastric complications, I should be at the Peach Pundit Roadshow.
On that happy bloggiversary day, I had every intent of resuming the regular venting of galatic snark. But first, I had to go to a conference for work in the frozen hinterlands to the North. Wait, the conference was in the frozen hinterlands, my work wasn’t. It’s in Atlanta. Where, at least on the day I left, it was warmer than the aforementioned frozen hinterlands. Anyway…after a rather bumpy landing, arrived at the hotel. Got checked in, registered, hit the Starbucks (thank you JW Marriott, for having a Starbucks in the upstairs lobby adjoining the hamster trail to the convention center. It keep me alive for 3 days.)
The first night was an Irish celebration, since the conference started on St. Patrick’s Day. The food was ok, mostly convention food pretending to be Irish food, but it was free and at least some of it was hot. There were Irish dancers and two stages worth of Irish music. Visited with co-workers and friends that had moved on to other colleges. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Then the fun began. Around 2:30, the vomiting started and continued until I thought the only thing left of my body was my toenails. After a few minutes of fitful sleep, I dragged myself up, attempted to shower, and walked very slowly towards the convention center, which was supposedly serving breakfast. The thought of a chafing dish convention food breakfast just made me heave. I shuffled along, and there, like the sun rising over the ridge, was my old friend Starbucks. After an iced green tea and a toasted plain english muffin, I mustered the courage to shuffle further down the hamster trail to the convention center. The rest of the day consisted of one very expensive Coke and a packaged “gluten-free” lunch that would have made my elementary lunch lady proud. I got maybe two of the noodles from the mystery pasta dish down and a couple of slivers of fruit. Saved the rock-hard sugar cookies for later. During the next break, I snagged a banana from the snack table. The rest was, shall we say, unappealing.
Then horrors of horrors, someone suggested our group go out to dinner. I had hoped to slither back to the room and pray for God to just take me home. But no…. The powers that be settled on the Weber Grill Restaurant. After a invigorating dash through around 20 degrees of wind chill, we arrived. Don’t get me wrong. Under normal circumstances, this is the type of restaurant I really dig. Leave those fruffy-indy-fusion-got-my-own-tv-show restaurants to the foodies, give me a good steakhouse and I’m a happy girl. Except for that night. Every smell tortured my stomach, just daring it to heave the day’s meager fare into my boss’ lap. I ordered grilled chicken with sauteed spinach and garlic mashed potatoes. Working with a normal appetite, my meal would have been delicious. As things stood, I muscled through and managed to eat about half the chicken, two bites of the spinach and about half the potatoes. After another invigorating walk in the frigid air (ice crystals were hitting my face!), the second night of fun began.
No projectile ejections that night, but the gas pains were unbearable. I felt like John Hurt in the cantina on the Nostromo, waiting for his little alien to explode from his gut. After another long and uncomfortable night, I soldiered up the morning and staggered to my old friend. Iced green tea and a toasted bagel this time, since some horrible, selfish and unthinking person had bought the last of the english muffins. Lunch was better, grilled chicken caesar salad and palatable cookie. Okay. Maybe I will survive this after all. More sessions, more stomach grumblings. There was a party the final night, with Indy cars and several bands. The only food I could stomach was the nachos. After about an hour, I excused myself for an early night. Then the fun began again.
Only this time, it was the other end. Dear Lord in Heaven. I really thought it was my last night on Earth.
The next day, when I checked out of the hotel and bought a package of the world’s most expensive Imodium, the desk clerk took pity on me and gave me a Gatorade. I must have looked pretty rough. Starbucks, my old friend. Iced green tea and an attempt at a breakfast sandwich. (Aside: Saw the UGA Women’s Swim & Diving Team in the lobby. Later that week, they won the NCAA Championship. Go Dawgs!) Later, at the airport, the cafe cheeseburger with sauteed green beans wasn’t bad, and seemed to settle in with little trouble. But as I waited on the plane, the old gas pains returned. No explosive excitement, thank heavens, but the pain was intense. While on the plane, when folks would look around (ick! who did it?), I would look askance at the poor fella sitting next to me. He had no idea what was going on.
Plane landed, shuttle to the park and ride, the drive home – don’t remember a bit of it. I fell into my bed, rejoicing that I had survived.
That was last Wednesday. I still don’t feel like eating. It was two days before I could face the laundry, which though rinsed out, were tightly wrapped and still in the suitcase.
And that, my friends, is the story of My Most Excellent Unadventure in Indianapolis.
Obi's Sister 