Snoqualmie

Candy from strangers, or bread from Diannas

Here is the million-dollar question: was it the delicious assorted naan, which I shared so expansively with the entire Tumbleweed Tinies cast and crew last night, that made me horrendously sick four hours later, or was it the vegetable pakoras which I hoarded jealously for myself? If I'm unsure, what lesson should I take from this to guide my future food-sharing behavior?

Between 1:30 and 4:30 this morning I didn't actually leave the bathroom. Why bother? Every half-hour, on the half-hour, the names of the offending foods would start marching through my mind like a litany of remorse. Garlic naan. Onion kulcha. Kashmiri naan. Mixed pakoras. Garlic naan. Onion kulcha. Kashmiri naan. Mixed pakoras. One of the culprits would volunteer for my reinspection, and then I'd curl back up in the fetal position on the bathmat and resume wanting to die.

I've mentioned this before, but Jacob is completely unreasonable about disgusting illnesses at terrible times. It's one thing to indulge your delicately swooning beau with a little manly mothering by, I don't know, fetching smelling salts and holding her limp hand during decent daylight hours. It's quite another to go on Pepto-Bismol runs in the middle of the night and let your not-so-delicately vomiting girlfriend back in bed at 5:00 in the morning when she has reverse-Indian-food breath. And bring in the energy-sucking space heater so she can spend three hours in the 40-degree bathroom without dying.

I'm feeling better now, having missed two hours of work and an LGBT Studies lecture (oh rats), but still in time to wobble my way to the midterm review for Hunter-Gatherer Archaeology. It's pretty nice timing, frankly, if I may say so. Of course, even better timing would have been never at all. Ugh.