A Love Letter To Pepto-Bismol

Dearest Pepto,

Thank you. You’re lovely.

We first met when I barfed at the very top of a moving Ferris wheel. I lost a friend and corn-dog that night. But you were there, in all your pink splendour. I don’t like pink as a colour, but I can certainly drink it.

Fast-forward to yesterday. All those emails. Hopefully we’ve seen the last of them. Not counting the actual replies to said emails. Which would be really useful. I can read emails, I’d just like a break from writing them. Perhaps for the rest of my life.

The emails. And then the dentist. The hygienist asked me about my dress and the honeymoon. All these questions while poking around in my mouth. Gag. Actual gag.

After my teeth seemed to be blasted right out of my head, it was date night.

The last calm, unmarried date night before craziness descends next week. Sarge and I toasted each other. With burgers.

On the way to the movies, Sarge bought some sandals for the honeymoon. Now. I have the opposite of a foot fetish. Gag. Actual gag.

With the sandals safely in the box, we went see The Big Wedding. Bit too close to the bone just now, methinks.

Around the time Robin Williams hit the water, my stomach spoke up, and I tasted the burger. Again.

And at about ten last night, I saw it. Again. Date night had turned into some quality time with Freddy, who you might remember from this post. Sarge understood. And gave us some alone time. I emerged from the bathroom at midnight, and watched exactly eight minutes and 23 seconds of Arrested Development before I had to go in again.

This time, I stayed there til 3am. It was the safest place.

Now. My friends have said that I’m the most relaxed bride-to-be they’ve ever seen. But I’m thinking the nerves had to show up sometime. Like last night. Or early this morning. At 8, 10 and from midnight to three.

We’ve established that I’m not nervous about actually being married.

And so.

Maybe it was the dentist, or the movie. Or the fact that my mother arrives next week. Or maybe it’s because someone called me Mrs Sarge’s Surname last week. And that’s not my name.

Maybe it was just a bad burger.

I traded in my morning coffee for a few swigs of your pink loveliness, Pepto. It’s been a while since we last met this way.

You’ve still got it, and thanks to you, I still have my insides.

Help a girl out for the next ten days, and then I’ll be your best friend.

Love,

Lorna xox

Just look at them, vying for my affection.
Just look at them, vying for my affection.
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10 thoughts on “A Love Letter To Pepto-Bismol

  1. Whilst I sympathise with your unfortunate ailment, I did also have to chuckle whilst reading this post! I hope everything goes well with your wedding.

  2. Your account of your discomfort was just visceral enough, not too much. Funny, charming, smart.. In a just world you would be paid for your wit and talent. someday, it shall be so.

    Good you’re getting the heaves out of the way now. Hopefully by t the wedding day or will just be fun.

  3. If you boak on your dress – OR – my boiled starched shirt and gates ajar collar, crisp gleaming White Marcella Waistcoat and Tie, I shall be very cross! Very cross, indeed.

  4. I hope Pepto doesn’t end up being a wedding crasher. That kind of thing only happens in the movies…with guys named Owen. (Whoa. Sarge’s real name isn’t Owen…is it?) *snort*

  5. I too have the exact opposite of a foot fetish… And as an IT guy who spends a fair amount of time when on site at a client, under their desks, I get totally disgusted when people (read: ladies) have a collection of shoes under the desk…

    I immediately think I smell feet when I see empty shoes, and being under the desk, I swear I get claustrophobic and nauseous because of it. I swear one day I’ll fill those shoes with barf for them.

  6. Excellent stuff. I’ve considered getting some of those ice trays shaped like Popsicle and making pepsicles.

    I haven’t though. I’ll let you know if I do.

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