This morning, I pulled a Scooter and puked on the bathroom rug.
I've always marveled that in a house of either tiled or wood flooring, Scooter always manages to hit the few rugs whenever he's sick. Now I have a bit more sympathy and understanding.
The wave of nausea that preceded the pukecident was so sudden, and for a moment I thought I could ride it out and it would pass, that I didn't get to the toilet in time. So, yeah, I barfed on the bathmat.
I haven't puked on a rug since I was in college, and that time it was a disgusting combination of Blue Maui Schnapps and chicken pizza, which ruined chicken pizza for me forever. This time it was just water and apples, and I've puked up apples plenty of times before -- they seem to be a food that rebounds for me just fine.
Just when I think the barfisodes have completely elapsed, one sneaks back up on me; it's almost as though my pregnancy mocks me: "You think you're done feeling gross?! Ha! Here ya go!" Oh well, at least the episode was singular and I've felt just dandy since then; I guess my body just likes to put me in place every once in awhile, show me who's boss.