The road home from bingo is fraught with danger and excitement.
A few months ago, I was dead tired after a rousing evening of bingo with the Matrons of Mayhem. On that particular night, I chose to wear pink glitter to color coordinate with my dress. I jumped into the shower to begin the glitter removal process. Despite my best efforts, typically I discover residual glitter infesting my persona for two to three days after each bingo.
On this occasion, upon looking in the mirror after the shower, I was horrified to discover that the pink glitter had left a bright pink stain in the shape of a handlebar mustache on my face. I thought to myself, well at least I don’t have to go out in public on Saturday and, hopefully, the stain will be gone by the time I go to church on Sunday.
Later, unable to fall asleep because of all the excitement, at 2 o’clock I found myself comfortably ensconced within the basement glitter dungeon of Chateaux Pap Smear with a dozen chocolate-covered donuts and a pitcher of Diet Coke sitting strategically within my reach, while I conducted some on-line shopping for a new caftan. After about an hour of Googling, I decided to take a break. I sat on the sofa and turned the TV to Golden Girls reruns. Being the aged dowager damsel fossil that I am, I immediately drifted off to sleep, in the sitting-up position.
Something awakened me, probably something Sophia said. As I tried to look at the TV to see what had woken me, I felt a little dizzy. I closed my eyes a couple of times and by then the room was spinning around like a carousel. I laid down on the couch, in case I was having a head rush experience. It only got worse. I tried to stand up and fell over, luckily landing on the couch. I began to be nauseous. I stood up again to go to the bathroom since I felt like throwing up. I couldn’t stand. I crawled to the bathroom and held onto the toilet with all my might, lest I be thrown from the planet from the centrifugal force of the spinning. I held onto the porcelain throne for a good 20 minutes. It was only getting progressively worse.
Oh, My Hell! I thought I’m was having a stroke.
I slowly crawled on my hands and knees upstairs to the bedroom where Mr. Pap Smear (M.P.) was soundly sleeping. I kneeled at the side of the bed, in a “prayer position” and poked M.P. awake and squeaked, “There’s something wrong!” He arose from bed and helped me sit in the reclining chair. I held onto the arms of the chair for dear life, lest I fly away. I had to keep my eyes shut to lessen the spinning effect. It was at this point that nausea reached a climax and I began to wretch. M.P. quickly grabbed the garbage can and thrust it in front of me to catch the vomitus glitter spray. I begged him to call 911.
Within 10 minutes, at least four handsome paramedics were at my side. I opened my eyes just enough to appreciate how hot these men in uniform were. It just so happened that the hottest one began to take my vital statistics. As he held my hand to take my pulse, he remarked that my pulse was racing. Well duh! Look who is holding my hand. He did several other tests, necessitating him putting his strong sensuous hands all over my body. As he examined me, I hoped to gaze longingly into his beautiful soul-searching eyes. At the very moment he was looking into my eyes with a flashlight, before I could lock my “take me I’m yours” look onto him, I barfed into the trash can on my lap. He patted my cheek in sympathy and gave me an anti-nausea pill. All I could think was that I was so grateful that I was out of wig, makeup, bra and caftan before they saw me. My worst fear is that I have a medical issue while in full drag.
He said that I should go to the emergency room to get checked out. They said that M.P. could drive me, and that they would help get me out to the car. So, we enacted every queen’s dream of having two handsome men in uniform escort me, holding onto my arms as I walked out to Queertanic. All the while I’m clutching the trash can to catch my glittery discharge. Holy shit! The ride to the hospital was worse than riding Big Thunder Mountain Railroad.
In the ER I was ever-sa-grateful the doctor was another stunning specimen of mankind. More hand holding and touching ensued. Pulses raced again! While he was shining a light in my eyes, he said, with great concern in his voice, “Just what have you been doing to have a pink mustache stain? Does your perspiration always sparkle like glitter?” Oh boy, here we go…!
He ended up prescribing Dramamine and sent me home.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
- Could I become famous if I begin filming glitter removal videos for YouTube like Dr. Pimple Popper?
- Is it just me or is the ratio of hot men in the medical profession higher than the general public?
- Did the EMTs recommend that I go to the ER mostly because of the pink stains?
- How much did my holding of the garbage can diminish the romance of the uniformed escort to the car?
- Should I begin carrying a bedazzled purse just for catching glitter spew?
- Should Lagoon build Petunia’s Big Thunderous Breasticle Railroad?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.