Coat of Nasty Arms

Remember my story about the bathhouse and all that vomiting onto the streets of Manhattan? I was wearing a mid-thigh length black coat at the time, which I tried to be careful to keep out of the line of fire; however, in the throes of the hurling such attention to detail is bound to dissolve, apparently. A few days ago (a full week after the vomit incident), I thought my coat had a smidge of vomit-odor on it. At the time I thought I was just being neurotic, which would have been likely. Yesterday, however, I picked it up, smelled it. It smelled like vomit all right. Still keeping my faith in the neurosis, I put on the coat and went to work. Later in the day, I reached into my pocket for my cell phone—whooooo!!! Oh my god, the scent of vomit was ripe and superpowered. I didn’t put my coat on when I left work. After work I went to Mazda to give Gracie an oil change. After I talked to the guy inside, I came out to my car to get my cell phone (weird—I’m not really all that dependent on my cell phone but it sure sounds like it). Oh my god, the scent of vomit was ripe and superpowered—and in my Gracie. Immediately after the oil change I drove home and tossed the foul coat in the washer. Now, I, the air outside me, the air in Gracie, the air the graces and fates breathe in and out, is clean clean clean. Never has a drunken escapade taken on quite the long life as this, and this one was all an accident happened upon by Mark’s generous hand with the Vodka.

As a side note, Saturday I went team Christmas shopping with Shin. Just after we took off in my car, while I was wearing my criminal black coat, he sniffed at his coat and said, "Whew." I said, "What?" He said, "That’s bad." "What is it?" I asked. "It’s bad. It smells like it needs to be washed," he said, "I don’t want you to smell this." It must be bad, I thought to myself. Now I think to myself, I wonder if it was my coat all along. Could we both have had equally foul coats? It wouldn’t be the first synchronous event.

p.s. My dog hand is healing nicely. I can pick things up, I can put my hair in a ponytail, I can pleasure cats. This morning The Good Doctor checked my wounds for infection, and there was none. Hoo. Ha.