Dec 02 2005

“I’d rather barf drunk, thank you.”*


I’ve always prided myself on having an iron stomach. Nausea is just not something I experience very often, and even when I am nauseous, it’s rarer still that I actually throw up. I can probably count the number of times I’ve heaved as an adult on one hand (including the times when the cause could be traced directly to over-imbibing.)

So needless to say, it’s a shock when it happens…and Wednesday night was especially surprising given that whatever I had eaten to anger my digestive system had already been pouring out the other end of me for nearly 7 hours.

Fortunately I had heeded Dr. Darling‘s advice earlier in the evening and placed a bucket near the nest I had built on the couch. (Though I had done it rather grudgingly because 1) I rarely barf and B) even when I do, I have enough self-control to make it to the john in time.)

Well damn if I didn’t fill that bucket…which was really remarkable considering the amount of time I’d spent sitting on the can earlier in the day.  And the Swede proved once again why she has a doctorate in molecular medicine and not the clinic variety by retreating to the absolute furthest point away from me that she could and still be in the same room. 

Gawd I hate throwing up sober.  It’s just a miserable if not downright traumatic experience…which probably explains why I always have to call my mother afterward. (Unless it was alcohol-induced.) Seriously. It’s kind of a family tradition…most of my siblings do it, too.  There’s just something really comforting about the sound of my mother’s voice after I’ve heaved my guts up.  Even weirder than that, she always seems to be glad that I call to report it.

I guess nothing says I love you like “Mom, I barfed.”

Feed my ego!

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