Yes, once I puked thru a basketball net. What a night that was.
Emesis.
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I have two intensely personal vomit stories, but this one is nicer.
I was with people in Cheyenne, Wyoming. It was supposed to go for the day, and as it turned out, it's a good thing it didn't. We broke for lunch, and I wandered off on my own. About a block and a half away, I found a Chinese food place that advertised a very reasonably priced buffet.
Lesson No. 1: Don't do a Chinese food buffet in Cheyenne, Wyoming. In fact, I have an very dear friend who's an epidemiologist who preaches about the evils of buffets, and not just in Cheyenne. I should probably listen to her, and this would be reinforced by Emesis Story No. 2, if it ever gets told.
I went through the buffet. The food looked... hard to say. Not that it looked bad, exactly. But if you like coffee, and you stop in at a 7-Eleven and see the coffee that's been on the burner all day, pour yourself a cup, you might look at it and say, "Y'know, I like coffee, but this isn't really what I had in mind." This buffet was to Chinese food what the leftover remains in the 7-Eleven pot is to coffee.
But I was hungry and gulped it down and went back to the meeting, which lasted another hour, and by the end, my stomach was feeling... well, not right.
Time for a science lesson, kids. When food goes down your gullet into your stomach, it passes through the esophageal sphincter. Your stomach is a sac (when you're talking about body parts, you leave off the "k") for food, and when the food leaves the tummy for further digestion, it passes through the pyloric sphincter.
Back in anatomy class, I was not told that the pyloric sphincter was equipped with a padlock. That was an obvious lapse in my education.
To carry this tangent further, and more painfully, I have a weird body system, but it works well for me except for the fat layers and body hair issues. I really don't get sick (we won't talk about the heart attack in this story; just go along with me for now). When I don't feel well, I sleep it off. The Kids refer to it as my "mutant healing factor."
Apparently, there were things in that Chinese buffet that didn't talk the same language as my metabolism. My body detected things it didn't like, set off the Homeland Security alarms, put the aforementioned padlock on the aforemention pyloric sphincter, and said, "You shall not pass!" and you can't make it any more literal than that. The contents of my stomach just stayed there, churning and building up.
I left the meeting, drove back to the office, and complained about not feeling all that well. I was met with clucks of sympathy by Emily (office manager) and Becca (high school runner and grunt worker).
I retired to my office to work, but deep within my body, the Chinese food was increasingly frustrated at not being able to leave through the back door after having been let in the front. It grew increasingly noisome and vociferous. It demanded to leave. One way or another. (Hint: "Another" was the ultimate choice.)
All I knew is that I seemed to be growing a 40-pound rock in my belly, and my jowls were starting to tingle. It just was not good. Miserable, even. I considered a trip to the bathroom, which involved walking through the office complex and down the stairs. But I didn't know how dire it was. Maybe I wouldn't make it down the stairs before the "everyone out!" alarm went off. Or maybe I would be staying in the bathroom for an hour, wondering if anything was going to happen.
The trash can by my desk, lined with plastic, supplied the answer. I drew it close, just in case. As it turned out, I didn't have to wait long.
Back in my innards, the food that was denied passage starting rioting about its close quarters. It finally said, "Hey! If we can't get through the back door, let's go back out the front! We'll use this stalk of spoiled broccoli for a battering ram!"
I couldn't hear that outcry, exactly. I was just alerted to the results. I pulled the trash can over as the aggrieved population of chicken szechuan, kung pao shrimp, spicy beef and broccoli, and fried rice came rushing up and out to freedom, which it found briefly before being projected into the trash can's plastic lining. Weirdly enough, the contents pretty much looked and tasted the same on the exit as they had on the entry.
And next weirdly enough, I felt instantly better. The discomfort was gone. In fact, in a few minutes, the stomach started saying, "Hey! I'm empty here! When we gonna eat?" Stupid body.
There was only one thing left to do, and that was to treat young Becca, who looked up to me as a mentor and patriarchal figure, if only to my deluded ego, to the sight of watching her boss walk through the office and out to the dumpster in back, carrying a plastic bag full of warm vomit. Boy, did I feel dignified.
That's Emesis Story No. 1.
I was with people in Cheyenne, Wyoming. It was supposed to go for the day, and as it turned out, it's a good thing it didn't. We broke for lunch, and I wandered off on my own. About a block and a half away, I found a Chinese food place that advertised a very reasonably priced buffet.
Lesson No. 1: Don't do a Chinese food buffet in Cheyenne, Wyoming. In fact, I have an very dear friend who's an epidemiologist who preaches about the evils of buffets, and not just in Cheyenne. I should probably listen to her, and this would be reinforced by Emesis Story No. 2, if it ever gets told.
I went through the buffet. The food looked... hard to say. Not that it looked bad, exactly. But if you like coffee, and you stop in at a 7-Eleven and see the coffee that's been on the burner all day, pour yourself a cup, you might look at it and say, "Y'know, I like coffee, but this isn't really what I had in mind." This buffet was to Chinese food what the leftover remains in the 7-Eleven pot is to coffee.
But I was hungry and gulped it down and went back to the meeting, which lasted another hour, and by the end, my stomach was feeling... well, not right.
Time for a science lesson, kids. When food goes down your gullet into your stomach, it passes through the esophageal sphincter. Your stomach is a sac (when you're talking about body parts, you leave off the "k") for food, and when the food leaves the tummy for further digestion, it passes through the pyloric sphincter.
Back in anatomy class, I was not told that the pyloric sphincter was equipped with a padlock. That was an obvious lapse in my education.
To carry this tangent further, and more painfully, I have a weird body system, but it works well for me except for the fat layers and body hair issues. I really don't get sick (we won't talk about the heart attack in this story; just go along with me for now). When I don't feel well, I sleep it off. The Kids refer to it as my "mutant healing factor."
Apparently, there were things in that Chinese buffet that didn't talk the same language as my metabolism. My body detected things it didn't like, set off the Homeland Security alarms, put the aforementioned padlock on the aforemention pyloric sphincter, and said, "You shall not pass!" and you can't make it any more literal than that. The contents of my stomach just stayed there, churning and building up.
I left the meeting, drove back to the office, and complained about not feeling all that well. I was met with clucks of sympathy by Emily (office manager) and Becca (high school runner and grunt worker).
I retired to my office to work, but deep within my body, the Chinese food was increasingly frustrated at not being able to leave through the back door after having been let in the front. It grew increasingly noisome and vociferous. It demanded to leave. One way or another. (Hint: "Another" was the ultimate choice.)
All I knew is that I seemed to be growing a 40-pound rock in my belly, and my jowls were starting to tingle. It just was not good. Miserable, even. I considered a trip to the bathroom, which involved walking through the office complex and down the stairs. But I didn't know how dire it was. Maybe I wouldn't make it down the stairs before the "everyone out!" alarm went off. Or maybe I would be staying in the bathroom for an hour, wondering if anything was going to happen.
The trash can by my desk, lined with plastic, supplied the answer. I drew it close, just in case. As it turned out, I didn't have to wait long.
Back in my innards, the food that was denied passage starting rioting about its close quarters. It finally said, "Hey! If we can't get through the back door, let's go back out the front! We'll use this stalk of spoiled broccoli for a battering ram!"
I couldn't hear that outcry, exactly. I was just alerted to the results. I pulled the trash can over as the aggrieved population of chicken szechuan, kung pao shrimp, spicy beef and broccoli, and fried rice came rushing up and out to freedom, which it found briefly before being projected into the trash can's plastic lining. Weirdly enough, the contents pretty much looked and tasted the same on the exit as they had on the entry.
And next weirdly enough, I felt instantly better. The discomfort was gone. In fact, in a few minutes, the stomach started saying, "Hey! I'm empty here! When we gonna eat?" Stupid body.
There was only one thing left to do, and that was to treat young Becca, who looked up to me as a mentor and patriarchal figure, if only to my deluded ego, to the sight of watching her boss walk through the office and out to the dumpster in back, carrying a plastic bag full of warm vomit. Boy, did I feel dignified.
That's Emesis Story No. 1.
...any other fans of The Who's.."Emesis Front"??????....
Siggie ... you seem obsessed with anal and oral activities .... I think Mr. Freud would have found you very interesting indeed ...
I find her very interesting.Siggie ... you seem obsessed with anal and oral activities .... I think Mr. Freud would have found you very interesting indeed ...
come and join the party dress to kill ...
dress to kill ....
dress to ... dress to kill ...
well .... I think how you and I find her interesting ... would be waaaay different from Mr. Freud's analysis ... no pun intended ... but it does work
With enough coke I'd probably lose interest in anything else, too.
The other not-so-nice one.
Grandma and I were on a bit of a spontaneous road trip, because we like to do that. We went to Golden Gate Canyon State Park (it has nothing to do with California), because it was fairly close, an hour or so away, and we'd never been there. We went hiking...
Never mind. That has nothing to do with the point of the story. When we were done, we went driving and decided to find a place to eat and stay in Blackhawk. Blackhawk is one of three towns in Colorado that has gambling houses, because back around 1989, I think, the Colorado voters were sold a bill of goods that if we allowed limited-stakes gambling in three small mountain towns, it would be their last hope for them to do historical preservation. It passed, and we saw historical preservation in the form of tearing down legacy buildings at worst, refurbishing them at best, for an influx of new massive casinos. Again, I digress. But from our standpoint, having been in Vegas a few times, we were thinking that we could get a decently priced room and victuals for a nice romantic evening.
We got sleeping quarters in one of the big hotels okay, and the room was nothing to rejoice over, but as the pitchman said to Johnny, if you want Vegas, go to Vegas. We strolled across the street to the casino, found out there was a buffet upstairs, and it had lots of seafood, and Grandma likes some seafood, and I generally love it all. (And landfood, too, for that matter. It's all part of a Problem.)
She had her shrimp and vegetables and clam chowder, and I got a variety of things, some of which made her wince, but I was in culinary rapture. After sneering at the "preserved" mountain town and feeling "meh" when getting to the room, we were at least getting treated to a nice meal.
We lingered. I think we ordered a drink each. Then I complained that my stomach wasn't all that happy with the food. "Do you want to go back to the room?" "No. It'll pass."
But I was wrong.
We went downstairs to the casino and did our little people-watching thing, because we don't gamble, much, and strolled, with me waiting for the stomach to settle. I finally said, "We better go outside," and about 15 yards outside the front door was a nice patch of flowery landscaping next to a bridge, just a very pretty place.
I leaned against the railing of the bridge. "Are you okay?" she asked, and I shook my head and then bent over and promptly despoiled the manicured rows of daffodils, petunias, and whatever other unfortunate three-syllable flowers that happened to be in the way. It wasn't the not-so-bad expulsion of a stale Chinese buffet. No, this was the full abs-cramp projection that leaves you gasping, with foul bile smells and bits and tastes floating in your mouth and sinuses, and telling your stomach, "Please, please, just stop."
It was a quiet night, fortunately. I don't know if any passers-by were watching. If they were, they were probably thinking, "Stupid pig bastard, taking that pretty lady to a casino and not able to hold his liquor. Poor girl. I hope she finds someone worthwhile." If I'd been aware of them, I probably would've been thinking, "If you try the buffet, skip the damn oysters."
We agreed to go back to the room, but, oh, we'd probably skip the rest of the romantic evening and just try sleeping. We went, and I lay down, but I was now getting fever and chills. Grandma offered to take me in search of the local emergency room, but I said, no, let me sleep it off. After some fitful dozing, followed by a panicked call from the viscera, I staggered to the bathroom, knelt at the throne, and whatever else I'd consumed that day that could climb back up did so, after numerous repeated attempts. "That's it, stomach. Now stop it!" "You sure? Let's try one more TIME!!!" I'd found the secret to the Net Low-Calorie Diet combined with the Total Abs Workout.
The one good part was that immediately after this second interminable event, the fever broke completely, the chills stopped, and I slept soundly. In the morning, refreshed, we strolled around town, and I even had a pretty good breakfast.
We did not bother with checking out the offerings of the casino across the way. In fact, we see that casino now and then on local TV ads, and invariably some of the relatively undifferentiated cells lining my stomach will pipe up with distant memories.
So there it is, with even a Stephen King and 1.5 obscure Star Trek references thrown in. And what did we learn from all this?
Once is a possible anomaly. Twice makes for a lesson. No more buffets.
Grandma and I were on a bit of a spontaneous road trip, because we like to do that. We went to Golden Gate Canyon State Park (it has nothing to do with California), because it was fairly close, an hour or so away, and we'd never been there. We went hiking...
Never mind. That has nothing to do with the point of the story. When we were done, we went driving and decided to find a place to eat and stay in Blackhawk. Blackhawk is one of three towns in Colorado that has gambling houses, because back around 1989, I think, the Colorado voters were sold a bill of goods that if we allowed limited-stakes gambling in three small mountain towns, it would be their last hope for them to do historical preservation. It passed, and we saw historical preservation in the form of tearing down legacy buildings at worst, refurbishing them at best, for an influx of new massive casinos. Again, I digress. But from our standpoint, having been in Vegas a few times, we were thinking that we could get a decently priced room and victuals for a nice romantic evening.
We got sleeping quarters in one of the big hotels okay, and the room was nothing to rejoice over, but as the pitchman said to Johnny, if you want Vegas, go to Vegas. We strolled across the street to the casino, found out there was a buffet upstairs, and it had lots of seafood, and Grandma likes some seafood, and I generally love it all. (And landfood, too, for that matter. It's all part of a Problem.)
She had her shrimp and vegetables and clam chowder, and I got a variety of things, some of which made her wince, but I was in culinary rapture. After sneering at the "preserved" mountain town and feeling "meh" when getting to the room, we were at least getting treated to a nice meal.
We lingered. I think we ordered a drink each. Then I complained that my stomach wasn't all that happy with the food. "Do you want to go back to the room?" "No. It'll pass."
But I was wrong.
We went downstairs to the casino and did our little people-watching thing, because we don't gamble, much, and strolled, with me waiting for the stomach to settle. I finally said, "We better go outside," and about 15 yards outside the front door was a nice patch of flowery landscaping next to a bridge, just a very pretty place.
I leaned against the railing of the bridge. "Are you okay?" she asked, and I shook my head and then bent over and promptly despoiled the manicured rows of daffodils, petunias, and whatever other unfortunate three-syllable flowers that happened to be in the way. It wasn't the not-so-bad expulsion of a stale Chinese buffet. No, this was the full abs-cramp projection that leaves you gasping, with foul bile smells and bits and tastes floating in your mouth and sinuses, and telling your stomach, "Please, please, just stop."
It was a quiet night, fortunately. I don't know if any passers-by were watching. If they were, they were probably thinking, "Stupid pig bastard, taking that pretty lady to a casino and not able to hold his liquor. Poor girl. I hope she finds someone worthwhile." If I'd been aware of them, I probably would've been thinking, "If you try the buffet, skip the damn oysters."
We agreed to go back to the room, but, oh, we'd probably skip the rest of the romantic evening and just try sleeping. We went, and I lay down, but I was now getting fever and chills. Grandma offered to take me in search of the local emergency room, but I said, no, let me sleep it off. After some fitful dozing, followed by a panicked call from the viscera, I staggered to the bathroom, knelt at the throne, and whatever else I'd consumed that day that could climb back up did so, after numerous repeated attempts. "That's it, stomach. Now stop it!" "You sure? Let's try one more TIME!!!" I'd found the secret to the Net Low-Calorie Diet combined with the Total Abs Workout.
The one good part was that immediately after this second interminable event, the fever broke completely, the chills stopped, and I slept soundly. In the morning, refreshed, we strolled around town, and I even had a pretty good breakfast.
We did not bother with checking out the offerings of the casino across the way. In fact, we see that casino now and then on local TV ads, and invariably some of the relatively undifferentiated cells lining my stomach will pipe up with distant memories.
So there it is, with even a Stephen King and 1.5 obscure Star Trek references thrown in. And what did we learn from all this?
Once is a possible anomaly. Twice makes for a lesson. No more buffets.
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...my lesson from all this is....thank God I wasn't the gardener at the Casino....
Yes, please Grandpa , no more buffets for you. Public puking is not cool.
Yesterday at my sister's skating party, a friend's baby did a fabulous puke - they'd fed him way too much too fast and no one burped him - and so 16 oz of foul smelling formula puke just kept pouring out of his mouth all over the booth seat during cake and ice cream. It was hard not to laugh because he covered his father in it - it was almost like the Larda$$ puke. I knew I'd have to come back here and share it.
Yesterday at my sister's skating party, a friend's baby did a fabulous puke - they'd fed him way too much too fast and no one burped him - and so 16 oz of foul smelling formula puke just kept pouring out of his mouth all over the booth seat during cake and ice cream. It was hard not to laugh because he covered his father in it - it was almost like the Larda$$ puke. I knew I'd have to come back here and share it.
I will forward his dissatisfaction to the kitchen staff.
I told this story to my epidemiologist friend who said first, "Now do you believe me about buffets?" and then, "Food poisoning. You were pretty lucky."
I wasn't proud. Believe me, if I could've held off, I would've.
When I was in high school, my parents had this favorite restaurant and they used eat there a lot. One night they were there and a few tables away from them someone threw up all over their table. My parents had to leave (of course). They tried to go back to the restaurant a couple weeks later but had to leave because they both couldn't stop thinking about what had happened. They never went back after that.Those mental pictures can be tough to get rid of sometimes.
Eye bleach is not enough for something like that.
Hi, Sir!
I can certainly understand.
Emesis PTSD. (Yuck!)
Peace.
Hi, Sweetie Pie.
OMG! ROFLMAO! (Sorry!)
I shared your post with John and he stated, "That would do it for me." Ha!
Hi, Ms.V!
I'm not sick. Physically. Maybe...mentally?! Ha!
(I need that rolling on the floor laughing my azz off emoticon!)
Thanks for the visuals.
Carrots? What about the whole kernel corn bits that you haven't eaten in weeks? (Errp.)
Hugs.
Peace.
Hi.
Thank you for that. I probably will never buy Fruit Loops for my son ever again. Ever.
Peace.