No One Expects The Spanish Inquisition.

Wow. I mean, just... wow.

I made it through to week 20 of this pregnancy without puking. NO VOMIT. I may have mentioned this before, but I really hate throwing up.

So finding out that Big Daddy's food poisoning incident on Tuesday was not, in fact, food poisoning... was not a good thing. Especially not good was finding out this vital piece of data at around 10pm on Wednesday, when my crushing headache suddenly turned into nausea and ferocious projectile vomiting.

Followed by raging diarrhea. (And.. you're welcome.)

Violent fluid loss in all possible ways from my body pretty much sums up the activities of the subsequent 24-hour period. Let's not even talk about the clean-up that was required, and just say that my husband is a raging candidate for sainthood. He's really earning his 30th birthday present (whitewater rafting with "The Guys" in July.)

The one bright spot in the clamoring chaos of the past week?

I have reserved an hotel room at the Westin St. Francis, San Francisco, for BlogHer. This room, where I anticipate late nights of giggling and intermittent weeping to take place, will be shared with This Lovely Lady... on condition that I promised my husband not to start a torrid affair with her. I did, however, receive permission to smack her on the bum with wild abandon. Also, since she is somewhat infamous for her wild abandon in bestowing random acts of licking, there will be a detailed diagram of "places I may be licked by mochamomma without having to confess and repent to my husband after the fact". Good thing I kept all those blank anatomical diagram sheets from nursing school. heh.

So I return you to your regularly scheduled programming. I, for one, will now commence laying prostrate on the sofa waiting for my strength to return.