As some of you may have noticed on my Instagram and Facebook stories this afternoon, I engaged in yesterday’s evening meal at a Denny’s restaurant in Pensacola with my boyfriend, father in law and step uncle in law(…?…I think that’s what I’d call him…or just Bob…Bob is fine too…). This choice resulted in a wanton rejection from my body. Upon entry into the restaurant, I honestly believed that we were merely stopping by to say hello to Brian’s dad and uncle (his uncle has recently suffered the loss of his wife and some horrendous medical issues, so we all try to spend time with him when possible.) as he tends to like to do that. He’s quite the social creature.
So anyway, it was decided somewhat telekinetically that we would indeed be feeding at this locale. This was roughly the same 45 to 60 second window of time in which the server was soliciting us for the order and trying to stifle her desire to scissor kick her counterpart in the back of the head whilst telling her to “shut the fuck up” and not to tell her what to do, and so with scant time to review the menu options (and knowing full well that I did not want eggs, pancakes or nachos – nachos, of all the random items for a breakfast establishment to peddle…) I just anxiously blurted out “Do ya have biscuits and gravy?!” (Brian looks at me with probable disapproval and misunderstanding as to why I would order something like that – Me just assuming he must not like biscuits and gravy)
Let’s condense the story line for the sake of brevity, shall we? I continue to closely watch the wait staff as they sneer at one another cantankerously and spit offhanded remarks, just in case we might need to physically remove one of them from the other in the event of an escalation. We talk amongst ourselves (Meaning the patriarchs advise and we listen) about things Brian should do in an effort to turn a dollar in our tackle shop (it’s hunting season, aside from becoming a hunting shop, this place is going to be dead as Liberace until March.) and about commercial fishing charters being a scam. Food arrives. We eat the food. I eat 3 of the 4 biscuits doused in an off white, gelatinous mass thinking that it’s pretty mediocre, which is fine because this is Denny’s, and I fully expected this. If I wanted a five-star dining experience I would go to Ichiban and have a feast of sushi that would turn me into a gluttonous beast.
About the time we get up to vacate the premises I begin to experience flu like symptoms. Which I of course tell myself is nothing. (Which can be a REALLY bad habit to get into, telling yourself it’s nothing when it’s really something because then when that something REALLY starts to occur some parts of you are more surprised than others…if you catch my drift…) Brian and I proceed to go grocery shopping and talk about death. Yeah, death. I have a morbid mind that flings itself in all directions as it sees fit. I think I might have a demon. I continue to feel nauseous and light-headed with some mild to moderate stomach cramps. I poop in a liquor store. Minimal relief achieved but at least the hand soap in there smelt lovely, if nothing else. I continue to resist the voice in my head telling me that I have food poisoning.
We get our groceries and observe a high school aged boy and his girlfriend boisterously addressing some of the staff members through the milk coolers in the dairy section. That was weird. We go home and I prepare the Crock Pot Chicken Enchilada soup recipe that I have doctored up to taste creamy, cheesy and delicious (most of the time) and end up watching a classic car auction while I wait for the chicken breasts to cook long enough to be shredded and added back in. I wonder why anybody would want a 1996 Chevy Corvette with blue leather interior, let alone pay $50,000 for it. Just, no. I start to get tired and achy, so I go get in bed. Man, sure feels like food poisoning.
Manage to convince myself amidst waking up throughout the night that I definitively do NOT need to puke. (Let the record reflect that I definitively DID need to puke.) My 5:15 alarm blares its vociferous in my ears, encouraging them to liquefy and bleed all intensive hearing organs out as it does every morning. I really love mornings. That time of day always seems to conveniently kick-start the bowels for no apparent reason, gives you the opportunity to be the first to step onto the polar ice floorboards of the house, drive on the road with other people who love mornings as much as you do and that would just as well care to maim you in a collision as they would make it to work and have to stay there.
I realize my body has done all that it can for me in staving off the ejection that I now realize is inevitable. It’s all good though, my head stopped pounding once I got down with the sickness. I crawled back into bed an proceeded to tickle scratch Brian’s back because of all things that puts me to sleep (Maybe it’s because it’s so enjoyable to provide my partner with something that I know feels nice and nurturing or maybe it’s because it’s recklessly boring and physically exhausting to my appendage…we may never really know).
So I guess that moral of the story here is to avoid eating foods that most likely sit tepid on a bedraggled line in the name of efficiency. Won’t do this again. Trust.
GoBrittaneyGo 
Word!!!!!
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