“Ummm….I’m sorry….but you have smoothie on your shoe,” is not what you’d expect someone to say after you’ve just spent three hours with them in a professional capacity. Questions come to mind.

Wait…what? Smoothie? How did she notice that? And why did she wait until i was LEAVING to tell me?

These situations are so embarrassing.

(And by “these situations”, i don’t mean specifically this spilled smoothie staining my brown leather ankle boots. i mean the whole general spilled-on-self-and-now-everybody-knows thingie. It’s like my thing. There’s candice! And look! She had coffee for breakfast! Oh and soup for lunch!)

Sigh.

Yep. Smoothie on my shoe.

i glance down and see, that yes, there IS smoothie on my shoe. Pink, because i put strawberries in it this morning. How did my client know that was pink smoothie and not pink-something-else on my shoe? Because i had the last of it with me when i arrived and drank it during break. What she did NOT know, was in that smoothie spill accident, which had happened a few hours earlier while i was too busy checking emails to make sure i had a good cup-to-mouth seal before i started drinking, i had also dumped a good amount of it down the front of my shirt. But, besides a slight sour milk smell that faintly lingered about my person, i had done a pretty good clean up job on that one if i do say so myself. And besides, it was my Friday and i was outta there soon.

“Thank you! Have a great day!” i look back up and wave at my client. What else does one say in this situation?

How could i know that i had just witnessed a foreshadowing of what was to come? How could i know that this pink splattered shoe was prophetic? And the million-dollar question…if one is warned ahead of time what is going to happen, can one avoid it? Or is it fate, and by trying to avoid it, we actually cause it, which fulfills the prophecy just how it was meant to be fulfilled? I think i just sprained my brain. It’s time to get on with the story.

So, i go home, make tacos for dinner and have a nice evening with the Man. We wake up late, enjoy a leisurely morning, and start getting ready to go to the City to meet a friend for dinner.

(And when i say “the City”, i mean San Francisco. That’s what us Bay Area folks call San Francisco to sound cool. Oh – and when i say “Bay Area”, you are to assume it is California, and not like…Tampa Bay or something like that. And before you think i’m cool – which i’m sure runs through your mind every time you read one of my posts – i just moved here 2 years ago and gave my fair share of blank stares when folks talked about “going to the City.” i mean…there are a TON of cities down here! But now? I say it too. Cuz i’m cool like that. ‘Nuff said.)

 

So, we have lunch – leftover tacos – and start getting dressed to go to “the City”. But something isn’t right with me. Those tacos aren’t sitting peacefully in my stomach like they should be and i am not feeling so well. i quietly slip back to the bedroom and lie down for a few minutes. This is weird. i have been feeling just fine up until now! Maybe a quick little rest will help. i shut my eyes and it feels like the room is spinning. i open my eyes. Maybe i should just get up and finish getting dressed. But my stomach is definitely not happy and showing signs of a possible revolt. C’mon man! We are going to THE CITY!! This doesn’t happen every day! And i haven’t seen this friend in years..there Is. No. Way. I. Am. Gonna. Puke.

The Pink Stuff.

i finish dressing and grab my trusty half-empty bottle of Pepto Bismol. Yep. The pink stuff. And now? Lightbulbs are probably going off and you are guessing how this is going to turn out, thanks to the Prophetic Shoe. But the yesterday-candice didn’t have the advantage of understanding the Prophecy and so was clueless. So she drank the pink stuff.

(And by “drank”, i mean chugged the rest of that bottle like i was a frat boy at a beer pong party. i drank that sucker dry. Because by then i was getting a little desperate. i was sweating, swallowing hard, shaking, and trying with all my might to keep those dang tacos DOWN. i was NOT going to miss going to the CITY!!!!)

“You ok?” the Man asks.

“Yep!” i say and smile tightly. Sit, tacos! Stay!

“Ok….let’s get in the car then.” The Man doesn’t sound convinced. We head out to the garage, get in the car and back out.

As he puts the car in gear and starts to drive out to the front gate of the condo-plex, my situation is rapidly becoming dire. i swallow and WILL the tacos to Stay. Where. They. Are. i say a little prayer. i mentally plead and beg for them to just stay down. i take deep breaths. Nothing is working. The Man glances over.

“You’re gonna puke aren’t you?”

i quickly nod my head.  At this time, i cannot open my mouth to speak because instead of words, we were gonna get splatter-taco all over the windshield. i shut my eyes and feel the car make a u-turn. Oh godmothermarybabyjesusbuddha and allthethings..

DON’T LET ME THROW UP IN THIS CAR!

“Here..i will drive really slowly so not to make it worse.”

Oh no! Don’t drive slower! i am a ticking-taco-time-bomb and there is no way i am gonna do this out in public! i am, by nature, a very private puker. Cuz no matter how sweet and romantic it seems in movies when the dude holds the girl’s hair and rubs her back, there is nothing pretty about puking for reals. i’ll deal with hair. The last thing i want is an audience while i lose my cookies…er…tacos. But my sweet Guy is creeping back toward our condo and i can no longer hold it in.

“Ssssstoppppp!” i gurgle as i grab for the door handle.

The car stopped just as i finally got the dang door open but NOT before my inside tacos become my outside tacos. And that’s when i was painfully reminded that i had chugged half a bottle of Pepto just mere minutes ago. i lurched my way out of the car just as i became a veritable exploding Mt. Vesuvius of pink puke. At this point, there was no hope of me making it all the way to the bushes where i could have a bit of privacy, and in fact, i didn’t even care that the car coming slowly towards us actually practically stopped to watch. i was now picking my battles and just trying to NOT puke on the car. But alas. Some battles just aren’t meant to be won, as i fire-hosed in pastel all over the car door, the curb and myself.

“OOOOH! Pepto!!!”  The Man hoots and laughs.

Some famous volcano somewhere. Or, my stomach.

And, as i stood there, bent over with hands on knees, heaving, snot running out my nose and tears making a Tammy Faye out of my once pretty makeup job, hair (of course) totally in the way, i look down and see….a pink splattered shoe. Not the same brown boots of the smoothie incident – those were still at home awaiting a thorough cleaning. But yet another pair of my nicer shoes that will now have to join the “to clean carefully” pile.

“You wanna get back in?”

Still bent over and not sure this thing was over, i looked over my left hip to see my Guy leaning across the front seat, looking at me with a caring and concerned smile and i know for a fact i am seeing True Love in the flesh. i tried to reply but the tacos were up for round two and all i got out was, “i got your car!!” before i was bent back over splattering the pavement pink.

Needless to say, i walked/puked the last 100 feet to the condo, where i stripped, threw my clothes directly into the wash, (the shoes stayed outside) and spent a goodly amount of time finally and PRIVATELY, in the bathroom.

We never made it to the City and my friend, who knows me well by now, believed my crazy story and gave me a raincheck.

Now, does anybody know the number for Hazmat?

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