Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Weak stomach? Skip this one.

I will preface this with a little background information: I’m not a puker. The last time I barfed was the summer before my senior year of high school. I’d taken a real whopper of a pain killer for my bad back. My stomach rejected it. Violently. Prior to that day, I hadn’t vomited since fourth grade. I was out of practice. As a result, I honked on the floor of my bedroom. And then the bathroom floor.

My mom looked like she wanted to execute me as she asked, through clenched teeth, why her 16-year-old couldn’t puke in the toilet like a normal human.

I didn’t have enough practice!

Anyway. On to our story.

After the Michigan-Iowa game that I went to with my mom, we met up with my sister (who had been sitting in the student section) and one of her good friends. We were all mighty hungry. Starving, even. So hungry, in fact, that we didn’t think we could weather a long wait at a decent restaurant.

Any restaurant that is truly a campus institution is packed after any game.

Joe’s Crab Shack? Not a campus institution. Not even technically on campus, in fact. But we got a table right away and it was very fast and we were all stuffed and happy when we left.

On the drive home, Mom made some comment along the lines of "geez, I’m not used to eating so much fried food. You’d think they could throw a vegetable or two on the plate with the fried fish and fried shrimp. But do they? No. They serve it nestled in a bed of fries."

I was too full to chime in my own commentary.

A telltale rumble in my belly awoke me at 1:00 am. I made a mad sprint for my bathroom, blazing down the hall with my hair blowing in the wind and my hands pressed to my mouth.

It had been a long time.

But I knew.

And I knew that I needed to make my mother proud.


I made it to the bathtub, which seemed like an acceptable alternative. I barfed and, as any 24-year-old would do, I went to get my mom.

"Mom? Mom? Psssst! Mom! I just threw up."

She looked like she wanted to strangle me before she even opened up her eyes. "Where?"

"On my sleeve." I inserted a dramatic pause. "And in the bathtub." I pushed my voice to assure that she'd feel sorry for me.

"Then wash it down the drain!" Her pity wasn't exactly palpable. I shuffled back to the bathroom to take care of my mess. On my own.

I go into the bathroom and turn the water on as high as it can go. In addition to improving the water pressure this maneuver, of course, also made the water really hot.

I was, essentially, steaming the vomit in the bathtub.

And then my mom came to help me.

Completely naked.

(Due to menopause, not my father, thankyouverymuch.)

So there I am, with my naked mother, wearing vomit on my sleeve.

This might be a good time to tell you all that my mother is a nurse by profession. She doesn't practice full time but, as a professor, she's frequently in the hospital with her students.

We all know that nurses are well versed in the gross.

So imagine my surprise when my half-asleep and completely naked mother peers into the bathtub, takes in the sensory overload that was my barf, turns around and pukes - TWICE - into the toilet.

And that is the story of how I made my nurse mother vomit in the nude.

It's an accomplishment for the ages.


Susan said...

This story is as hilarious as it is disgusting. As a fellow out-of-practice-puker I feel your pain...and your sense of accomplishment. :-p

Amy said...

I am not a puker, either. But I'd be the mother yelling down the hall that you were old enough now to puke alone!!

By the way, I hate to see what google hits you get for "mother puking in the nude".

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