Upstate Upchuck

I was spending a lonely night playing Final Fantasy VI (although arguably, a night with Final Fantasy VI is never lonely) when I took a break to check out the latest options on OkCupid.

I clicked through the usual suspects: cute-but-nuts Carly, butterface Betty, demanding Dorothy, princess Penelope, and nose-picking Nicole. Yes, I actually did happen upon a profile photo of a young woman picking her nose with the caption, "I'm such a good pick." Oh, irony. Thy name is online dating.

So my bar was already pretty low when I happened upon Vivian. One thing that stuck out at once was that she was Australian. That meant an accent, which meant that even if she had a profile photo of herself picking her nose, I'd be able to forgive her that. The very fact that she didn't have such a photo was enough for me to launch an email in her general direction.

Fully conscious that every second writing to her was a second less I had to play Final Fantasy VI in this or any lifetime, I read her profile quickly to spot any points of common interest. We both liked books, animated films, travel, and... what was that last thing she wrote in her "favorites" essay?

Final Fantasy VI. She was a gamer. Holy crap. Jackpot.

Barely able to keep my fingers from quaking with orgasmic finger jitters, I word-vomited a message to her in which I mentioned that I only happened to BE playing the best game ever at the very moment that I perused her profile. What a stroke of luck. If she believed it. But why wouldn't she? I have an honest face.

She wrote back not long after. Thankfully, she dug my youthful hijinks and after a few more messages we graduated to phone phase. I couldn't wait to hear her accent, and I was not disappointed. It was thick and glorious. Rather like my penis. And what's more, she was a great conversationalist. Also like my penis.

I asked her if she had ever been to Cold Spring, New York. It's a small town with lots of indie shops right on the Hudson River, a little over an hour north from Manhattan. She hadn't been, and so that was the site of our first date.

There's a fine restaurant not far from the water that has all manner of tasty fare. I ordered a turkey burger and she opted for a make-your-own omelette. It's the sort of situation in which you start with regular omelette doings and then you can add up to three fillings, such as cheddar, mushrooms, onions, or swiss cheese.

When the waiter asked her what she wanted in her omelette, Vivian said, "Cheddar, onions, and piglet."

I very nearly snorted my ginger ale into the next county. The waiter repeated, "Pig... let? You mean ham?"

"Piglet," Vivian said in that fine, fine, mighty fine accent of hers.

The waiter said, "We have ham. Or bacon."

"Is it from a piglet?"

The waiter became flummoxed. "It's... er... it's from a pig..."

I said to Vivian, "That'll probably work for you. A pig's a piglet with major life experience."

She said, "I don't want life experience. I want piglet." She then sighed loudly (in a really hot Australian way) and said, "I'll just have extra onions."

The waiter seemed very grateful and took our menus. After he left, I quizzed her. "Piglet?"

"Have you never eaten piglet?" she asked, "Everything tastes better with it."

"Not ice cream," I mused, "I prefer my Cherry Garcia piglet-free."

"Oh, you just wait 'til I make you some of my famous piglet sauce."

"There exists something called piglet sauce?"

"You just wait," she said.

There are some things I can wait for. Another inch of snow up here in New England, death itself, and piglet sauce are likely in my top three.

Once we were done with lunch, we walked up and down the town's main road and popped into a couple of antique stores. I found a nifty old salt and pepper combo souvenir from a world's fair and she found an old children's board book with an image of a cartoon pig in adorable little pig overalls. "Look," she said, "I want to make piglet sauce out of it."

"I'm really glad. Want to go check out the beach?"

Way at the bottom of the main road is a little beach on the river. It's lovely any time of year, and a nice place to stroll. As we walked upon the upstate New York sands, I noticed that Vivian was moaning and groaning a bit.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

She said, "My stomach. Since lunch. It feels like–"

And then something curious happened. You see, we were walking right next to the river. Behind us was sand. Before us was sand. Vivian already knew she wasn't feeling that great. She could have chosen to perform her next act in any direction imaginable.

But instead of puking into the water, or in the sand behind us or in front of us, she turned, actually turned to face me, bent down as if she was aiming, and vomited all over my shoes.

"What the fuck?!" I shouted, backing away as the warmth of her juicy bile soaked deep down to my feet.

But she wasn't done. Like most of us who've had a good puke, there's more to come beyond the first wave. And Vivian had a mighty ocean to expunge. She stumbled toward me and again – again! – aimed directly for my feet.

I jumped away, unfortunately a little late, but I still avoided the brunt of the second hydrochloric load. Then she fell to her knees and shook.

I asked her, "Are you okay? I'm calling an ambulance–"

"No." She shook her head. "I'm all right. I just need to sit down for a bit. I'm all right. I am."

She coughed a few times and the color eventually returned to her face. I sat down next to her and asked, "Can I grab you anything? Ginger ale? Pepto? A bucket?"

She shook her head but kept her eyes shut. I figured she needed a few minutes of rest, and I had no other plans for the day.

After a couple of minutes, I heard from her direction the unmistakable sound of a very upset stomach. Automatically, I launched myself away from where I sat, and sure as buttons, she puked all over right where I had just been sitting. If I hadn't moved, it would've gone all over me.

I had to ask, "Are you trying to puke on me on purpose?"

She hacked and coughed and shook her head. But I didn't really believe it. She could have ralphed right in front of herself, but instead took the time to actually turn her body and face my direction. Thrice. That's thrice more than I would have done it to anyone. Except for maybe Hitler.

We remained a couple of yards apart for a little while longer until she wobbled up. "I think I wanna go home," she said.

I had driven us up there, and so I offered to run and grab my car if she wanted to just sit on a bench and wait. She did, so I returned to my car and drove it down to where she waited. I jumped out to open the passenger door for her and help her in.

As I did, she turned to me, opened her mouth, and... she dry-heaved but nothing came out. I jumped back as she dissolved into a coughing fit. Beyond a doubt, she desperately desired to puke all over me, and I hadn't the foggiest idea why she even remotely considered that course of action a great idea.

I blasted the heat (her request) all the way back to her place, about 40 minutes south. The whole time, I was terrified she'd turn to me and unload more stomach contents while I drove, or take the time to select the nicest part of my upholstery to puke all over, but she seemed to be done at last.

When we made it back to her house, I told her, "You can let yourself out. Feel better."

She didn't say a word in response, but left the car and disappeared into her house.

That night, when I played Final Fantasy VI, I didn't check OkCupid at all. But it did occur to me more than once that I probably would've had a better time that day if I had invited the nose-picker.

- JMG