Pineapples and pre-natal class don't mix.

Friday, August 3, 2012

One story that's bound to trickle its way down to the still unnamed (and unborn) bambino is the one about the time I defiled the parking lot outside pre-natal class with a blend of my own vomit.

I apparently thought it a good idea to get drunk off of pineapple vodka and RedBull shooters until almost 3 a.m.the night before our first pre-natal class. Oh, and we also had my sister Carly's engagement party the next day.


The crowning moment of this afternoon from Hades, of course besides projectile vomiting on two-thirds of the Long and McQuade parking lot, was when my other sister Erin looked at the bags under my eyes and the gaunt nature of my face and uttered emphatically, "Whoa. You look soooo tired."


ANYWAY, I'm kind of skipping all over the place here. So, the night before pre-natal class, I decided to chill with two of my oldest buddies, Rick and Dan. They live together in a house. They're not gay (not that there's anything wrong with that) and they like to party.

The night started off innocently enough. A couple bevies on the front porch, a nice BBQ dinner (or supper, however you prefer to say it) and some long over due catching up. What more could three guys in their late 20s ask for. Clearly, a Christopher Columbus boat load of the aforementioned nail-in-the-coffin pineapple vodka and RedBull shots, that's what.

(Tangent: I HATE pineapple. I ABHOR it. I don't know any other synonyms for hate right now, but when I find more, I'll tell you. It's the worst fruit. Why I got my drink on with that venomous-flavoured devil's juice is beyond me. I LOVE RedBull, though. I'm wearing a RedBull shirt right now.

 Hell, there's also a  RedBull truck Outside My Office Window right now.

 Seriously. I always wear my Phuket province purchased RedBull shirt on Fridays (Friday = casual day at work). It's like how Tiger always wears red on Sundays.)

Flash forward to 4:15 a.m. I'm barely conscious, laying down in the field of a Winnipeg School Division Number One school. If a hologram of Jesus or John the Baptist suddenly appeared to tell me I was in purgatory or something, I'd have believed it. I had no clue what was going on.

That's until I felt my phone vibrate. It's Jackie. Even the image of her face on my phone looks pissed off. We'll leave out all the swearing and threats on my life details, but luckily Rick was sober and drove my sorry ace home.

I slept as well as anyone can after a night of drinking. I woke up and thought I was good to geaux for the day's activities. Surely a protein shake with peanut butter, milk and berries was all I needed to quell the still-spinning room and intense sweating taking place out of every pore in my body.

We get to the Pre-Natal class at a place called Baby Rush. We signed up for a two-day class, taking place on consecutive Sundays. And, I have to say, I HIGHLY recommend attending a pre-natal class if you're expecting. It's all mostly common sense stuff (things like think twice about using toxic soap to wash your baby type of advice. I'll probably right about the whole pre-natal experience in another post).

I just wish I could tell you what I learned in the first class, because between doing everything short of promising to sacrifice my unborn child to a myriad of Gods to stop from throwing up, I retained almost nothing.

About 40 minutes into the class, I threw up. Then threw up some more. And some more. The human body is full of miracles. But whatever it is that makes us bolt for the closest toilet, bucket, or (in my case) parking lot when it's time to blow, I take my hat off to. The alternative would have been puking all over the pristine ivory-colored floor in a room roughly the size of a large bus shelter along side at least 25 other people. If that had happened, my next stop would have been oncoming traffic on the Perimetre.

I came back into the room looking like Tom Hanks' character from Castaway after year three. I knew Jackie was disappointed. I don't blame her. Instead of trying to justify myself , I gave her a sincere "I'm sorry. I fucked up." Not too sure if it worked or not, but it watered down the death stare she'd been brandishing at me since the morning.

Lesson here: know your priorities. Or develop a stronger alcohol tolerance. A combination of the two can't be beat.



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