Unfortunately, even the Ritz doesn't have the magical powers to heal the nervous stomach. Or the overindulgence in rich foods, too much red wine, and quite possibly, some sort of parasite implanted in our systems through the wonders of flat-screen technology. I knew we shouldn't have watched Grey's Anatomy last night.
4:20 a.m. - I am awakened by The Dancer who is throwing up in the bathroom.
5:30 a.m. - What are those rumblings in my tummy? The person who chose last night's group dinner menu should be shot. (It was me.)
7:00 a.m. - Will The Dancer make it over to the University of Georgia for her auditions?
7:14 a.m. - I need to get downstairs to check the continental breakfast. My hair is still frizzy and I'm sitting here typing.
7:20 a.m - Call and email UGA, seek to reschedule audition for Dancer who is now sitting on the posh toilet, contemplating calling someone, anyone to make her feel better. Makes a joke about diarrhea dialing. Very nice.
7:45 a.m. - The Valet has the car ready. "Something is wrong with your locks." Fabulous.
8:00 a.m. - The Dancer gets in the car through the passenger side to leave for UGA. She's still sick, but going to try to get there anyway.
8:02 a.m. - The Dancer is now locked in the car and cannot get out of the possessed vehicle.
8:10 a.m. - Hand $20 to valet for helping me rescue The Dancer from the car. Go back to meeting. Wish I was someone else.