Last night I vomited in a Mexican bathroom.  I definitely win.

The stairs were my undoing.  Drunk, I had to negotiate flights of stairs to find a toilet.  There was a line,  a long Mexican mamasita in bright colors of a line.  That’s when I got the spits and decided sitting on the Corona-splashed floor was a good idea.  When it was finally my turn to use the lavy, I tasted nachos.  I didn’t know how to lock the door.  At least I made it to the toilet. 

When I came back down to the bar, I was hungry again.  So Chris and I ate quesadillas and talked about feet.  I learned that Russian Strippers have toes that hang off their clear stilettos, and that dirty red toes are called "Rudolph Toes" because Rudolph tried to hide his red nose with dirt to try to fit in.  Chris pretended to vomit, puffing out his cheeks,  not realizing I just had.  Then he spoke of "Light-bulb Toes," which in bed that night I thought about while trying to fall asleep.  I thought of men with light-bulb fingers, fingers I would have described as spoons, and how I never wanted to fool around with a man who had spoon hands. That’s just creepy, and not in a good way.  I didn’t get any sleep.