>My Big Night Out

>It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was my Saturday night.

Hubs was up for A Big Award at a locally televised ceremony last night, along with several of his co-workers (my former co-workers). We decided to make a date night of it, pulling our dusty formalwear out of the closet and trying our damnedest to look glamorous.

I slipped into a backless floor length gown and realized I didn’t have a bra that would work with the dress. And braless, the dress on me looked like a lumpy velvet sack. Desperately, I thought for a minute, then remembered the two magic words: duct tape. The results were amazing. One piece of duct tape gave me the perkiest braless boobs this side of the Mississippi.

“You look great,” Hubs said admiringly as we walked into the hotel lobby where the Important Ceremony took place.

“Can you believe that an hour ago, I was cooking Hamburger Helper in curlers and a pajama top?” I said. We both laughed. Parent humor.

I had a few glasses of wine during the three-hour dinner and ceremony, and was pleasantly buzzed by the time Hubs won, yes, won his award. He gave an admirable acceptance speech, scored points by saying nice things about me, and remembered all three of the girls’ names. Heh heh. As the camera swooped in for a close-up of me cheering on my husband, I sat up straight and beamed, sneaking a look at myself on the oversized monitor. Yep. Thank God for duct tape.

Afterward, we headed with some of the other winners to The Palm for celebratory drinks.
After a French Martini, I realized I had reached my limit. Hubs and I decided to go to one more bar with the gang for coffee. And the bartender there, seeing all of the Major Awards carried by members of our party, poured shots for all of us.

This is the point where if I were a better writer, I’d have some major foreshadowing going on here. A black cat would run across the bar as I reached for my shot. A discordant piano key would sound loudly in the background. The angel sitting on my shoulder would sweetly whisper, “Now, Lindsay, shots are bad. BADDDDDD!”

But none of those things happened. I downed the shot. The room tipped a bit. I was fine. Shortly afterward, Hubs and I said our goodbyes and hopped in the car.

About ten minutes from home, I got a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. A churning. A bubbling. My digestive system was declaring mutiny.

“Oh noooooo,” I said, waving my hands in distress. “I have to throw up!”

“What?” my husband looked stricken. We were on the interstate in the pouring rain. Then he said the words that reminded me even then why I love him so much. “Don’t get it on your dress, whatever you do!”

I thought wildly. What would Susie Sunshine do? What would Susie Sunshine do? I muttered my mantra aloud.

Wait a second! I knew exactly what Susie Sunshine would do. What she did, in fact. Last weekend.

Calmly, I opened my window, stuck out my head, and barfed. And then I did it again. And I decided I didn’t like getting wet, so instead of actually hanging my head out as she suggested, I tried to stick only my mouth out the window. Which didn’t work so well. And I got some on my arm. And on the car door. But my dress? It was spotless!

And again, I thanked God for my husband. Because rather than being repulsed, he leapt into action, wiping me off when we got home at 1:30am, helping me into the shower, and putting me to bed. Oh, and taking care of the entire family today while I lay around sleeping off the worst hangover I have ever had in my entire life. Of course, the word “hangover” was replaced by “stomach bug” once the girls woke up.

But I lost four pounds. Yay!

And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, was my Saturday night.