TMI Thursdays: The Day I Got Laid Off

Welcome to my first-ever TMI Thursday post! I figured what better way to start this section off with the lovely tale of August 14, 2009: The Day I Got Laid Off. You can find all the hairy details about what happened here, but what I didn't talk about was the night of the day I got laid off.

I had spent the day alternating between bawling my eyes out and shitting my guts out, thanks to my awesome case of IBS that flares up under any type of stress (true story: I can simply LOOK at pictures of Rob's ex-wife and get the shits). Also, somewhere in the back of my mind, I figured that if I didn't eat anything, I'd at least be thin while unemployed (be honest, girls, who hasn't done that after a break-up or other life-shattering event?).

My former boss from my first job, the one I VOLUNTARILY LEFT, called me up and suggested a girl's happy hour to take my mind off my troubles. Fan-fucking-tastic! I'd go, nibble on some appetizers, have a glass or two of white wine, and come home sloppy drunk and far happier. So, I got all dolled up, marveling the whole time at how thin I looked (thanks, diarrhea!), pranced down the stairs in my 4-inch heels that I'd broken out of my closet for this very occasion (and if you know me, that's fucking rare), met Heather at the door and went on my merry way.

Fast-froward to 3 hours later, 4 appetizers later (2 of them being RAW AHI TUNA TACOS) and 2 small glasses of wine, a mixed drink and a vodka shot later, and I was in the restaurant bathroom, drunkenly shitting out every inch of intestines I had left. Every. Single. Inch. After I finished, I sat there on the toilet, weaving back and forth and trying to convince myself that I COULD focus, that I wasn't THAT drunk.

And then... it hit me. A wave of nausea so strong and so powerful that it took everything I had to pull up my underwear as I slumped to the floor and projectile vomited those nummy RAW AHI TUNA TACOS and everything else I had consumed into (almost) the toilet.

Now, I'm a healthy-sized girl and can carry my liquor like no one's business; in the real world, I wouldn't have even been phased by what I'd drunk. But after a day of total dehydration, no food and tons of stress, those drinks went all Ike Turner on my ass and beat the everliving shit out of me.

Fast-forward to an hour later, where I'm STILL throwing up with my pants around my ankles and passing out in-between barfing sessions. My boss is tipsily banging on the stall door, demanding that I unlock it (I can barely hold on to my consciousness, let alone open my eyes and move to unlock a goddamn stall door). Things went black for a while, and the next thing I know, they've managed to unlock the stall door and someone is giving me sips of ice water from a glass. Which I then threw up.

The best part of the evening wasn't when Heather's friend/my former coworker, Judie, dropped the glass with ice water behind me and it shattered, and I accidentally rolled on it as I barfed and got glass embedded in my ass.

It wasn't when Heather and Judie tried repeatedly to pick up 185 lbs. of my dead-weight ass and pull up my icy, soaked and glass-laden pants.

It wasn't when other women in the bathroom saw me and went, "EWWWW!" and Heather told them I got laid of and they became immediately sympathetic, cooing "Oh, my God, that's HORRIBLE! I'm so sorry! I'd be trashed, too! I hope she feels better!"

No, the best part of the night was when the manager had to come in, help them lift me up/pull up my pants and put me on a chair, and then slide me (I was passed out cold) AND the chair out of the bathroom, through the restaurant, out the door and to the front of the restaurant, where Rob was waiting for me (thank God, someone had the insight to call him). He tenderly helped pick me up and placed me gently in the front seat, where I immediately woke up, dribble-barfed down the side of my seat and out the door, and passed out again. WINNER.

Needless to say, I woke up the next morning, covered in RAW AHI TUNA TACO vomit with shards of glass drilled into my ass cheeks and all up and down my thighs. More surprisingly, however, was that Rob didn't immediately demand a divorce.

So, there you have it. My first TMI Thursday post.