Of hot tea and car sickness

Two things are certain to make me barf:

1. Drinking black tea on an empty stomach in the morning (once made this mistake on an airplane)
2. Riding in the back seat of a car (which is why I hate taking a cab to the airport)

Today I avoided #1 by a long shot, but came darn near on #2.  I stayed out too late last night for my own good, which meant I was a little woosy today in the first place.

At 9:30 I headed over to Caribou Coffee to grab an Irish Breakfast Tea with a shot of sugar-free caramel.  Caribou is the local gay pick-up joint. It’s always packed with buff men on the prowl, trying to pretend they’re reading. Or they’re there on dates. At any rate, there are generally very few women in there, and of the ones that are, well they simply get their drinks to go.

Which is what I was doing.

There were a couple guys working the counter — one at the cash register, and the other casually taking orders. I told him which tea I wanted and inquired about whether they had sugar-free vanilla syrup, to which he responded that they now have 8 different sugar-free flavors. I made my final decision on caramel, and the girl in line in front of me asked whether putting a syrup shot in tea was good. I said yes, that I was excited about caramel.

She walked away, and I tried to hand a $20 to the cashier. He made a motion as if to wave me away. I was confused. He said the girl paid for my tea. I was still confused. Then it sunk in that she had paid for my tea.

Interesting.

Given my locale, my first thought was that I’d just been hit on. But as my mind was furiously trying to come to terms with what was going on, I went over to the sugar/milk table, where the girl was just walking away.  I said, “Thanks for the tea.” She smiled, said, “You’re welcome,” and walked out the door.

The whole thing was just a little odd. Maybe it was just a “pay it forward” Sunday morning gesture.

Then I headed straight home to eat some Special K so that I could drink my tea without barfing.

Fast-forward three hours.

I’m making flowergirl dresses for Kim’s wedding, and we kicked-off the process over Dr. King weekend in January by measuring her two nieces-to-be, then spent the next day sewing. The two girls are polar opposites in size. One’s a teeny stick, and the other is bigger around than I am, except about 4’5″ in height. So we got the stick’s dress almost done, but we decided to do a muslin of the other girl’s dress first, just to make sure our crazy measurements were working.

So at 12:15 today, Kim and Garcia picked me up to head to Lake in the Hills (about an hour away) to try the dresses on the girls.

They kindly brought me a sandwich and chips for the ride.

I did pretty well for the first 58 minutes. Then nausea struck, and I thought I was going to throw up in my cup.

Backseats absolutely kill me. And I was foolishly sitting on the side with the sun. So just when we were 6 blocks away from our final destination, I put out the SOS to pull over.

Good thing it’s cold out. The blast of arctic air made it go away. Crisis averted!

Which leads me to the family story about me that won’t die. When I was five, I went to spend a few days with my aunt/uncle/cousins. They’d been over at my grandparents’ house (next door to ours), so I just rode home with them. There were six of us in a Ford Fiesta. Granted, I wasn’t all that big, but I was perched on the lap of one of my three cousins in the back seat.

All of a sudden, a wave of nausea came over me. And I barfed down my uncle’s back.

Once. Twice.

Poor uncle Jim.

But I don’t think it was as traumatic for him as it was for cousin Nan, who had to clean it up.

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1 Response so far »

  1. 1

    Matt said,

    What on earth were you doing out so late???


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