It was only two hours until my husband got home, I was out of the shower, pinning up my hair, and pulling something pretty from my closet. Hello Valentine’s day! I’m thinking, I’m going to look sooo good while making a nice steak dinner.
15 minutes later, my hair’s not finished setting but I have the cutest, albeit most uncomfortable blouse on. Does that matter? Not at all. Turns out cute, albeit uncomfortable blouses are not fashionable choices for cleaning vomit out of a car. What?
My poor husband rushes in, and begs me to clean his car as he runs to the shower, dripping lunch from the seat of his pants. He said he had a bit of a flutter in his stomach earlier in the day but tried to ignore it. Then on the drive home it got stronger. He tried to ignore it. It came rushing up and out of him while he was locked into traffic at 70MPH.
Now I don’t know about your spouse, but if mine sees throw up – even on TV – he will start gagging. So I know that his car needs to be cleaned up before he even looks at it again.
I pull off my cute, uncomfortable shirt, and get to saving my hubby’s future stomach contents.
Now I’m staring at what has now become my valentine’s day gift to him. What’s it look like when someone throws up out of a moving car? Well, sure, the car door is a yucky mess. It’s painted all down the driver’s side, continuing to the back door and beginning to wick up along the edge of the trunk.
But the inside isn’t looking much better. Pressure from the opened window had a say in the spray and, as well as the obvious mess on the driver’s seat, I’m finding splatter in every door pocket, on the console, the dashboard and finally, puddled on the floor. Even in that tight space between the seat and the car door – you know the spot where french fries go to hide out the remainder of their preservative encased lives?
And all the while I’m thinking, this is a test, right? Just to prove how much I love him? It can’t be real. I mean, what are the odds, on Valentine’s day? Right after I got myself all hussied up? I’m probably cleaning up some canned mix designed to prank the bored masses. Why? Just to prove our love means more than romantic trysts and fancy foods.
But it’s not. I am saddened to say it is most definitely not. Nothing in a prankster’s can would smell like this. It’s permeated my own clothes as I dove into the interior of the car, and somehow my curled hair has become a messy slick, sticking to my face from hosing down the outside of the car. There ain’t nothing Victoria’s Secret-y about the way I look. But on the plus side, I am pretty sure I’ve proved to myself that our love is so much more than the commercial mushy stuff. Maybe I’ll snap a picture so that later, when he’s not feeling so sick, he can look it over and comment on how I look absolutely amazing no matter what. That’ll be his test of love.
Happy Valentine’s day!