So, I published this a while ago. 2016 to be exact. Back when life was a little less interesting – you know, 2 kids and a husband that wasn’t dead. But I only had approximately one follower (Hi Mom!) and now I have approximately seven followers (thanks for sticking with me, Mom!) and with the day of love quickly approaching (like tomorrow, fellas), I figured I’d share it again, to get all you lovebirds in the mood, if you know what I mean. Hey oh!

You may not know this about me, but I used to be a hopeless romantic. And I longed for my husband to also be a hopeless romantic. Well, you can long in one hand and shit in the other, and see which one fills up first. Spoiler alert, you’re gonna get a hand full of shit. But, back when I was younger and full of hope and not dead inside, I always wanted my hubby to plan these fun and elaborate things, full of romance and hot, hot lovin’ or full of adventure and hot, hot lovin’. I quickly learned after being married for a time that if I wanted romance and/or adventure in my life, I was going to be the one to have to make it happen (side note – he was always up for hot, hot lovin’ or mediocre lovin’ or shit lovin’ – he just wanted my lovin’). Enter the below story. I’ll set the scene. It’s Valentine’s weekend of 2016. This mama is longing for romance, lovin’, relaxation and a little break from her adorable yet slightly annoying, very time consuming, sleep depriving and completely exhausting offspring. So, I line up a sitter (thanks, Mom!) and plan a couples massage, fancy dinner and a night in a swanky resort. And life takes over…

Hello friends. Sorry it’s taken me a while to return. Although, to be fair, I did say that I wouldn’t be returning all weekend. Unfortunately, it wasn’t for the amorous, romantic reasons I had hoped. Luckily, we did get in the couples massage, an afternoon nap and probably one of the best dinners I have ever had in my life. We were talking, laughing, looking like the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nut house. And just before the dessert arrived, I started to feel a little rumble in my tumble, if you know what I mean. And if you don’t, I felt like spewing the delectable meal I had just consumed all over the crumb free white tablecloth. Ash looked at me and said do you need some air to which I replied of course not, I’m fine, to which he said are you sure, to which I spat out actually I’m going to go back to the room, see you later. And off I scurried.

So, I make my smooth get away (was not at all smooth), all balanced on my heels and holding back the chunks. I have to ask how the hell to get out of the damn restaurant since I can’t find the damn door on my own. I step outside to the glorious, frigid night air; I round the corner, finding a quiet spot so as not to disturb anyone with the nastiness that I know is coming, and then I relieve myself of $75 worth of dinner and $30 worth of wine. I’m crying, as I always do every single time I throw up for as far back as I can remember. Clearly not my finest moment. The moment was made even less fine when I look up and realize that my private puking bush was not quite as private as I had hoped. I just spewed my wine, bread, dinner, bile and perhaps a little small intestine in front of a panoramic window full of lovey-dovey Valentine’s diners trying to enjoy they’re ridiculously delicious (not to mention expensive) meal. And some were definitely looking. Yikes. To. Me.  I then sauntered off, shoes in hand, vomit on dress, as if nothing ever happened and there was absolutely nothing to see. Because, quite frankly, what else was I going to do? Perhaps a bow, a tip of my metaphoric hat? No chance. Wasn’t happening. (Although, looking back, it would have been quite bad ass had I done all of the above. After all, what did I have to lose? Little did I know, nearly everything…my God that was depressing!)

So, I get back to my gorgeous room with ocean views, change into my fat girl pajamas, lie down on the bed and wait for my husband to return, which he does, accusing me of drinking way too much and vomiting my Valentine’s meal down the drain. No honey, not down the drain, in the bushes, in front of a huge window, at a super classy restaurant. Get your goddamn story straight. And at first, I agreed with him. I must have drank/drunken/drunk (what the hell is the appropriate word, I have no idea! Sorry, Mr. Ervin, in case you ever read this again! I know you taught me better than this!!!) too much wine and my body was just rejecting all the rich food. It wouldn’t be the first time (enter every anniversary dinner before that moment, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last time, enter every anniversary dinner after – up until death – I’m much more responsible on at anniversary dinner now, ironically). Until after an hour of sleep, I was up again, same story, different venue. And another 45 minutes after that. And so on and so on for the next 10 or so hours and 9 rounds of vomit later. And it wasn’t just coming out of that end either but you don’t need to know about that just like you don’t need to know that it’s still happening. What, aren’t we all friends here?!

It was one of the most memorable Valentine’s Days of my life. It started out romantic, relaxing and delicious, and ended, well, quite literally very shitty. And I promise you this, I would not trade that day for anything in the world. Because it was another memory, another story in the book of Ash and Kellie. Sometimes the book was funny, sometimes the book was sad, sometimes the book was scary, sometimes the book was romantic and sometimes the book was full of vomit in front of strangers on Valentine’s Day.

My life is very different now, for obvious reasons. (dead elephant in the room, if you will) I am not so much a hopeless romantic but someone a little jaded and a lot more real. My heart now longs for peace rather than romantic weekends away. Which is a good thing because my prospects for romantic weekends away are few and far between. I have tried dating, I’ve had sex and I’ve even, dare I say, slightly fallen in love, since losing my husband (I think there’s one too many commas in that sentence). None of it has worked out quite the way I thought or even hoped it might. But I’m trying. Ish. As much as my dark and damaged heart will let me.

Happy Valentine’s Day my friends. May you love wholly and vomit minimally (or preferably not at all). Be good people. Don’t use one another. And as always, try not to suck.