CUPID AIMED FOR THE HEART, BUT MUST HAVE TAGGED HER IN THE STOMACH INSTEAD.
Nothing says romance like watching your girlfriend vomit.
That’s the realization I came away with after this past Valentine’s Day weekend. Okay, there was other stuff, too. For example, I realized that giant chain stores like Ikea do have their good points. I also discovered that other urban mass transit systems exist, which are not nearly as decrepit as New York City’s. Finally, I came to the conclusion that little children are kinda neat, and can defecate their body weight in fecal matter. How can you not admire that?
Some background info for everything I just mentioned: K.’s sister, C., and C’s husband, T., are moving to California in a month (I believe they are relocating to a small suburb called San Nuevo, equidistant from Los Angeles and San Francisco). K. and C. are close, and since K. is about to spend two weeks in Japan starting today, a visit to C. and T.’s home in Maryland seemed downright imperative.
Now, as all you readers know, I am K.’s boyfriend. There was no way she was going to spend Valentine’s Day weekend, the premiere weekend for dating couples, away from the city without me. Luckily, K. wanted me to come, and just as important, her sister and sister’s husband invited me, too. Seems K. talked C. up quite a bit about me, and the latter, understandably, was dying to meet me. I wanted to meet K’s family, too, not to mention see Maryland. So I packed a bag, blew off my weekend study plans, and caught a bus with K. to D.C., the first leg of our trip!
DAY ONE, FRIDAY/ WASHINGTON, D.C.—Our bus left 34th Street during the evening, so by the time we arrived at Chinatown, Washington, D.C., it was after 10 p.m. From the Chinatown Metro station, K. and I hopped the Green Line to College Park, Maryland. Throughout the half-hour metro journey, I thought to myself,
"Man, these subways are awesome! No wonder so many people in the nation’s capital are corrupt! It makes so much sense! These people-movers run so smoothly, so silently. They allow your mind the opportunity to ponder, unmolested, ways to screw over the American taxpayer…
"Certainly, there are plenty of crooked politicians in New York City. But our politicians’ idea of white-collar crime consists mostly of dodging parking tickets, or finding ways to use public funds to pay for home remodeling. Washington, D.C., on the other hand, is home to the Bush administration. Find me a more ambitious lot of screw-job purveyors! New York City is minor-league compared to this town, and I blame the noisy MTA, where the average subway train (not counting the 4-5-6) clambers chaotically down its tunnel, raising a ruckus louder than an out-of-control robot caterpillar…"Before I could actually make the connection between our substandard mass transit system and our embarrassing class of crooked politicos, our train reached College Point, and K. and I disembarked.
DAY TWO, SATURDAY—Main highlights:
-C. and T. have an awesome house, the kind of place you think of when you hear the term "suburban living." There is a really cool downstairs den, perfect for T.V.-watching and video game playing. Of course, C. and T. will be moving soon, so I am going to abandon the house and describe their son Kai instead. He will probably be with the family a month from now. The house likely will not.
Kai is a rambunctious lad who enjoys playing with cats and cars, and appears to be developing his own personal language, composed mostly of hand gestures and single-syllable utterances. Since Kai is only a toddler, he is full of pep. Since Kai’s pep levels read off the proverbial scale, he is a handful to take care of.
According to K., C. told her that having both of us over would, contrary to what logic seems to dictate, actually reduce her stress. Why? Because K. and I could help her take care of Kai. Now, personally, I am not fond of children. However, my personal feelings never stop children from being fascinated by me, and so it was with Kai.
At one point, K. changed Kai’s diaper, a smelly but not entirely unbearable bit of business. In a moment of what can only be described as complete insanity, I agreed to change him the next time. Was there ever a next time!
Kai needed to be changed just a few minutes later. He is a squirmy kid, but once he starts staring absentmindedly at imaginary pixies on the ceiling, complacency kicks in and he relaxes. When it was my turn to change him, it quickly became apparent that Kai’s lower intestine had also recently relaxed. C. mentioned that Kai’s bowels had not moved in over a day. The wait was clearly over, leaving me clutching a diaper full of soft, stinky crud that weighed about as much as a softball. Ultimately, I required an assist from K., who stood nearby, as amazed as I was by how much waste matter a toddler could produce in a single effort. Kai kept trying to grab his feces-encrusted genitalia and anus, so K. held his hands while I managed to clean him with baby wipes.
-Second highlight: After the baby was fresh and clean again, all of us went to the Ikea a few blocks away for lunch. Ikea is full of cheap, superficially-attractive, instantly disposable junk for the home. I was surprised by how much of it I wanted to buy, though I settled for a few rubber trays that make funny-shaped ice cubes.
In a small town setting like College Point, the Ikea seems to serve as a kind of communal marketplace. The parking lot is big enough to accommodate the entire town, and with its vast store space, multiple play areas, clean restrooms, and modestly-priced cafeteria, the Ikea invites families to spend an afternoon, perhaps an entire day within its borders.
The seating area for the cafeteria faces a giant window on one side. Past the glass, one can look out beyond the parking lot, to green hills and municipal buildings in the distance. On a sunny day like this, with the tables only half-full for an early weekend afternoon, it is difficult to imagine a more inviting place anywhere in College Point. As for the food itself, it is clearly a step above the typical fare one expects from a department store cafeteria. I enjoyed a shrimp salad sandwich, made with fresh shrimp, a sliced, hard-boiled egg, and mayonnaise. K. shared her Swedish meatballs, red potatoes, and lingenberries. Food was eaten with silverware; beverages were served in glasses. A polite sign at the entrance to the seating area explained "Why we might dispose of our trays ourselves."
The sign doesn’t urge anything, it isn’t the least bit intimidating. But clearly, it worked like a charm, since you couldn’t find an empty table that hadn’t been cleaned off. C. said that it was always like this; she and I surmised that guilt and peer pressure probably had a lot to do with why the place was so devoid of litter. After all, College Point was a small town environment. What if she actively decided not to put her crumb-laden plates and tableware into the rack located next to the entranceway? Her fellow diners probably wouldn’t give her any dirty looks.
But what if they did? Isn’t that the point? Why take the risk, when the simple alternative is to carry your tray to the conveniently-located disposal area, not twenty feet away…?
DAY THREE, SUNDAY—K. and I were back in Ikea, shopping for more of those small presents she has to bring to Japan, otherwise the country won’t let her in. We were going to pick up a few last things, then C. would drop us off at the Metro station. As we were shopping, K. said she was feeling stressed out, and would rather carefully shop for all the things she needed, and postpone the bus ride home until the next morning. Personally, I was having a great time. I could have stuck around, played legos with Kai, no problem.
Then in the parking lot, K. said she wasn’t feeling too good, that she might throw up. This prompted C. to say, "Uh-oh," and with good reason. The week before we showed up, C., T., and Kai had alternated suffering from a short-lived, but extremely potent stomach flu. K. mentioned this to me before the trip, and even offered it as a reason why I might not want to come along. Ironically, I had been illness-free all three days in Maryland, whereas now she was feeling really bad. I might have mentioned what a funny turn of events this was, if I hadn’t been worried by the fact that K. had turned a shade of green ordinarily associated with St. Patrick’s Day.
My poor girlfriend spent the rest of the evening running to the bathroom to throw up. C. and T. moved us out of the guestroom next to the den, up to the bedroom on the first floor. The first floor bathroom was warmer and closer to where K. lay ill. Poor K. She could not eat, and was urged by her virus-ridden stomach to continue vomiting, even when there was nothing left in her belly to force out. Meanwhile, C. and T., great hosts that they were, made hamburgers flavored with jerk seasoning, and I tried my best to eat a cheerful meal with them. C. doubted K. would be ready to travel the next day. I said I would be surprised if she could. All through the night, K. drank water to keep her body from drying, and made periodic trips to the bathroom, as the same liquid angrily wrenched its way back out.
DAY FOUR, MONDAY—K. felt better, but was still too sick to travel. That was okay by me. Since it was Valentine’s Day, I did good boyfriend stuff, like reading articles out of old New York Times magazines to her. K. seemed to enjoy it, but she also seemed to want to get out of bed. I kept bringing her thermoses full of water and ice. Gigi, C. and T.’s fat black cat, rolled up next to K. in the bed, warming himself and purring softly as she rubbed him.
During the late part of the morning, C. entered with two glass flutes filled with apple juice and ice. She gave one to K., and one to me, and took photos of us together. Then C. and I switched, and I snapped photos of her and her sister together. When you compare the three of us in subsequent photographs, it is apparent that we are all tired. Still, K. looks great to me, and the pictures are a fine memento of a Valentine’s Day where I got to pamper my girlfriend rotten.
DAY FIVE, TUESDAY—K. felt well enough to travel, so we caught the 7:30 a.m. bus back to New York City.
Most of K’s vomiting seemed to be over by now. Still, a bumpy bus ride is never good for a sour stomach, so I bought her tea at a rest stop. She said it made her feel better.
We got back to the city by the early afternoon. K. went to her job in order to fill out her timecard, and I went home to take a long nap. Since K. had a 7:30 flight to Japan the next morning, she and I made plans to get together that night. It would be the last time we’d see each other for a few weeks.
I started this essay with the line, "Nothing says romance like watching your girlfriend vomit," and I probably spent a significant portion of the weekend watching her do just that. However, it’s not nearly as smarmy a line as it may sound. My poor K. was ill; I couldn’t just sit around doing nothing while she suffered. Bringing her fresh water, reading to her, holding her hand—it may not seem like much, but keep in mind, I do not enjoy being around sick people!
It’s a lot easier to be selfless when someone you care about is in need. In those situations, you pull yourself together, and overlook little things, like germs. You are willing to get close to someone, even if there is a risk they will vomit on you without a moment’s warning. Because selflessness is what romance is all about. It’s about giving of yourself, in order to try and fill the emotional (and yes, physical) vacancies in the person across from you. Like puzzle pieces interlocking, you give a little, and at the same time, get a little back in return. There truly is nothing more romantic than watching your girlfriend vomit, because when she vomits, you know she’s going to need you, either to hold her hair as she upchucks, or to comfort her afterward.
The only thing that might be more romantic than watching your girlfriend vomit, is if your girlfriend watches
you vomit. Unfortunately, as we speak, K. is probably somewhere over the western United States, facing the land of the Rising Sun, opposite the direction of the vomiting Phil.
Okay, I’m not actually vomiting as we speak. But if you were here right now, K., I might stick my finger down my neck, just to gain your empathy. Or maybe I wouldn’t have to go that far. Maybe all I’d really need to do is say I miss you.
Fourteen more days. Nothing says romance like counting down the days until your girlfriend’s home again.
