Kate and I just got back from a trip to Kohl's, and we had the most disgusting experience I've had in recent memory while we were there. It was so unbelievably freakish that I knew I was going to have to come straight home and blog about it. Because that is how I view my life, in chunks of Blogable Material. But seriously, I really think this stuff could only happen to me. See this post if you don't believe me.

This morning I had to get out to run a few errands that ended up taking far less time than I had anticipated. Since we were out of the house and didn't need to be back for Kate's naptime for quite a while, I decided to swing by Kohl's to look for a new pair of sunglasses. I think I have blogged about this before, but I am murder on sunglasses. I only allow myself to buy ten-dollar pairs of them because in my possession they have a life expectancy of anywhere from 10 minutes to two months before I break them, lose them or they are destroyed by a certain individual in my home who likes to raid my purse and try out the lipstick and whatever else is of interest. (Dan. OK, not really. It's Kate.) I left my latest pair on the last airplane we took on our trip home from Hannah and Daniel's wedding, so now I'm back to the dreaded process of trying to find a pair that I can justify paying for but that also fit my admittedly very narrow standards for what makes an acceptable pair of sunglasses. Here are the standards: Solid black, medium frames (Those big square ones that are in fashion right now make me look like a bug), must sit well on top of my head since I wear them there as much as on my face, and, perhaps most importantly, must NOT be adorned with rhinestones, doodads or bling of any form. So basically all I want is a simple pair of black sunglasses. This should be easy to find, right? Wrong. Apparently when you buy cheap sunglasses, you are automatically assumed by the fashion industry to be 12 to 14 years old and therefore very interested in rhinestones. So it takes me weeks to replace sunglasses once I break them. I think I'm just going to go ahead and buy three pairs of the next ones I like and save myself the trouble for a while.

Today at Kohl's was no different. Some nice glasses and definitely great prices, but bling all over the place. I just don't do bling. So no luck, but since Kate was happy walking around the store and we didn't really have anywhere else to be, I decided we'd walk over to the children's section to check out their warm pajamas. When we got there, I found a really great pair of fleece pajamas marked down from $20 to $10, but they were hung up on this rack almost near the ceiling, so I had to go find an employee to help me get them down. When that was accomplished, we headed out of the department towards checkout, and that is when the disgusting incident started. (Dramatic music here.)

We stepped off the carpet onto the middle aisle which is tile flooring, and it's a good thing I was watching Kate, because all the sudden, her feet were flying out from under her! Apparently I have developed ninja mom reflexes, because before her head hit the floor, I had managed to get my hand under it, which was a good thing, because she would definitely have cracked the back of her skull pretty hard. It hurt my hand it hit so hard. She wasn't injured but was pretty freaked out by the fall, and in the immediate moment I was so adrenaline-whacked from moving that fast that it took me a moment to notice that the reason she had fallen was because the floor was covered in this ... unidentified liquid. Kate was screaming, and I was helping her up, but now part of my brain was busily trying to figure out what this stuff was and where it had come from. Whatever it was, it was all over the back of Kate's outfit, and now that I noticed that, I realized it was also on my hand because I caught her head before it hit ... and it was white. Then I made a really bad decision: I smelled it. And instantly I recognized the unmistakable smell of .... infant spit up. Puke. Vomit.

Now, I have a kid, and in her day, she definitely puked on me enough that I realize there are more offensive things than a little spit up. But there is a big difference between being spit up on by your own infant and slipping and falling in a giant puddle of someone else's kid's spit up. Someone else who has clearly chosen to leave the scene of their kid's liquid explosion. And so three things happened simultaneously that did NOT help the situation.

First, Kate, having recovered in the last five seconds from her trauma, looked up and realized that the display she had fallen in front of contained dozens of Disney Princess figurines. She immediately started jumping up and down in front of the display, trying to reach one and pull it down.

Second, my brain, which had just realized that both of us were covered in another person's bodily fluids, immediately and unhelpfully started screaming "SWINE FLU! TYPHOID! ROTAVIRUS!" and the name of every other communicable disease it knows.

Third, my stomach, which is pretty sensitive right now because of all the pregnancy hormones, totally revolted, and I was struck by this intense fit of gagging and dry heaving. This was not a quiet affair. I was bent over in the aisle of Kohl's, retching violently, while my kid jumped up and down like a chimpanzee in front of a display of Disney Princess dolls and Christmas music played over the sound system (IT IS NOVEMBER 3, PEOPLE! HAVE YOU NO DIGNITY?). This went on for several of the longest minutes of my life until I could get a grip on myself and start looking around for an employee to whom I could explain this unbelievable situation and request that they clean it up. You know, like the person whose KID DID IT should have done. The employee I found was as horrified as I was. I imagine part of her horror was fear that I was going to sue, but I wasn't interested in hanging around long enough to do that. I had enough on my hands, what with herding Kate away from the Disney Princess display.

Once again, as in the Diaper of Doom incident, I didn't have so much as a baby wipe in my purse with which to clean us up, so I had to wait until we got out to the car before I could even take a shot at it. In retrospect, I kind of can't believe I actually went and got in line and paid for the pajamas. I think I was in shock. As soon as we got home, I put Kate in the bath tub and all our clothes in the wash. I may have to take another shower even though I had one this morning.

I haven't come to any really great conclusions about the meaning of this whole thing. But I'll tell you what I do know: The other night I was at Macy's and I found a pair of sunglasses that I really liked, but that were a little more expensive than I usually allow myself to buy. I have decided that tomorrow, I am going to walk (carefully, keeping my eyes on the floor) into Macy's, buy the sunglasses and not feel guilty about it. Assuming I don't have swine flu by then.