meeting the readers, and acting like a psycho!

So our esteemed commenter Brown (one of the prizewinners from the First, Possibly Annual, Readers' Photo Contest) came all the way across the continent on business, and this seemed a worthy basis to round up some of the local regulars. The august holder of the Mr. Drunken Househusband title, Silliyak, and his esteemed spouse, Moonrabbit, plus commenter A. all convened upon the Drunken Housewife's home last Sunday. All was proceeding according to plan (although I had hoped to hook our dear Hughman up for a videoconference, but that was not to materialize, alas). The commenters were, to a person, as congenial and witty as one would have expected.

But then... I was suddenly overcome by nausea and had to slip out in order to vomit repeatedly. I brushed my teeth, reapplied my lipstick, washed my hands like a surgeon, and went back downstairs. I told the Sober Husband that I felt that I had food poisoning from a questionable egg consumed earlier in the day and needed him to step up to the fore.

I was caught in a dilemma. Here were these delightful people, with their charming hostess gifts and nice manners, ready to spend a lovely evening, and since I'd never met them in person before, perhaps they would think I was some kind of a psycho if I abruptly sent them away. I didn't want to ruin anyone's evening, so I felt I could spare them knowing I'd become ill. (Since then, I've been advised that it was really stupid of me not to immediately send everyone away, as I was risking exposing them. Sorry, beloved commenters! I was a well-intentioned idiot). I slipped away a few times to discreetly be ill, washing my hands like an OCD patient. Soon it became clear that not only was I leaving the room inexplicably, but I was also not joining anyone in eating or drinking. I confessed that I had just developed food poisoning, and the guests carried on.

When I was able to be present in the room, the commenters were just delightful. The low point of the evening (aside from my questionable judgment in not evicting everyone for their own health's sake) was when the Sober Husband slipped off to answer some work emails, while I was slipping off to answer the swan song of salmonella. "I need you!" I hissed at him. "It's emails from the CEO," he said defensively.

So, the record for Meeting The Readers is very mixed. When our dear 2AM visited San Francisco, the Drunken Housewife was in fine health, did not leave the room repeatedly, and got solidly trashed as one would expect of her, and on the whole, performed as billed. The second set of readers got a different experience altogether (but still were wined and dined nonetheless).

After the dear readers departed, things grew worse. I haven't left the house or eaten since. I'm hoping to try some solid food today for the first time in 72 hours. Cross your fingers for me, people, that it goes well!