In an attempt to get me to eat one Wednesday night, my husband made what was then my favorite food on the planet...my mother's spaghetti recipe. We ate and went to church. During church, I felt sicker and sicker. Finally church was over and I just wanted to get home. We only lived a few blocks from there. My husband had to stay at church for something so I was going to drive home by myself. He walked me out to the car. Every cell in my body was focused on getting home so I could throw up in private. We almost made it to the car, when some people we had known in college and hadn't seen in ages came up to us. We talked to them for a few minutes and finally got away. My husband got me in the car and asked if I was sure I was going to be OK. I said yes, I just needed to get home. So he walked away and I started the car. But I couldn't wait til I got home. I lost it right there on the parking lot. I started to back out but had to open the door and throw up again. Then I tried to leave the parking lot but there was a huge line of cars waiting to pull out. So I had to sit there, opening the door every few seconds and barfing. When I finally got out of the parking lot, I drove like a maniac the three blocks to our house. Then I threw up again in our driveway. I still can't eat my mom's spaghetti. :(
