I was scrolling the news feed on Facey today and come across a video of a couple of kids trying weird arse flavored jellybeans. One of them was flavored ‘Skunk Spray’. Now, that one thought makes me think about vomiting, let alone actually trying one of these nasty little beans. The footage shows this little chap popping the jelly bean in his gob and pretty much immediately he starts to gag, spit, splutter, gag again and more spit. Then the dry retch begins. Before long this flows through to a beautiful projectile vomit all over his faithful spit plate for the nasty tasting beans he’s holding and spraying all over the table. It’s about this stage I am flat knacker laughing out loud at this poor little bloke spewing burning vomit through his nostrils with his eyes watering and face bright red.
Oh I can relate.
Now, I wasn’t going to do one of these blogs about how low my self respect can be, but I have a number of vomit stories that I’m not proud of but are way too funny not to share. So popping aside my embarrassment for the sake of a giggle, here goes. Don’t judge!
Corona’s and Vodka Lemon Limes
A few years back I spent part of a weekend in a little town called Wycheproof, celebrating my cousins 21st birthday. The day was warm and the beers were cold, so inevitably I consumed my fair share of Corona’s at the party and then headed to the local for a few more refreshments. Limited to a country bar liquor section I chose the VLL instead of my favored Whiskey simply because they didn’t have a good whiskey I could drink with water. The shouts started, and stupidly they happened to be with my sister who drinks vodka and tomato juice all the time, so before I knew it, I was TANKED! I removed myself from the pub because I know my limits and decided to head back to where we were staying; an old school friend’s house, who just happens to be part of the next vomit story… what is it with Wycheproof?? Anyway, the house was only 500 meters up the road from the pub, and on my way I thought I’d wait for my sister, so I sat down, well, I laid down with my handbag under my head and caught a few zzz’s while the world zoomed round and round my whizzing head… not the brightest idea I had had that day. I’m not even sure how long it was later, but my sister nudges me with her foot and jibes about me sleeping on the job. Up I get, and that’s when I knew I was really, really intoxicated. I walked backwards because I could NOT walk forwards, Mick walking behind me, watching me and we laughed at me trying to get my shit together on the wide main street of Wyche. An overwhelming wave of nausea washed over me and I knew it was coming. The wave of warm, cold sweat stuck to me. I couldn’t even bend over for fear of falling on my face, and the reality of that was I seriously would have, and I wasn’t sure if I could stop myself from smashing my face on the road. So, with every ounce of lady-likeness that I could muster, and I do actually have some, I just let the sick flow out… it ran straight down my chin, down my neck and then down between my boobs, flowing in behind the front of my dress. And then… again… Classy right? Yup. Mick, laughed, and she laughed and she laughed and then said, you all good? Lesson learned was I can’t drink vodka and I should stay away from it, but always stay classy!
Did I mention Classy was my middle name? This event isn’t one of my finest moments, I’ll admit it. A few years back I had a night out with my girlfriend who yes, is from Wycheproof. We consumed our fair share of refreshments that night on the stripper cruise and I have a feeling that she may quite possibly have been a little more sober than me. We jump on the Night Rider, which is a public bus that transports intoxicated/unlicensed/latenighters all over Melbourne in the middle of the night. It’s free and would drop us off pretty well at my street. So humming along in the bus, winding this way and that, and bouncing up and down, round more round’a’bouts, breaking hard, accelerating fast, another corner and then, the quiet hit me. Wyche Chick who is sitting beside me looks at me and says, you okay? I must have been looking a little worse for wear? I nod because at this point, if I had spoken I would have projectile vomited all over the bus. She knew, I knew, and it remained unspoken. I held it back. For a little time. Knowing I wasn’t going to keep it in, and I just couldn’t be okay with letting it rip in front of the 15 other bus users because I am classy remember, I opened my little black clutch purse and ever so quietly threw up into it. Done. No one hurt, no one maimed. Just my pride all snapped shut in a clutch purse. Classy. I closed the clutch placed it on my lap and tried to focus on the dark horizon out on the road in front. After what seemed like an eternity we got off the bus and wobbled home. Wyche Chick crawled into bed while I spread the contents of my clutch over the kitchen bench and wiped them all clean. I left the kitchen and hit the sack. Fast forward a few hours and Wyche Chick gets up after me. I am gulping water and panadol, while overlooking the contents of my clutch bag spread across the bench. My new digital camera, lip gloss, bank card, cash notes and coins and license lay on the tea-towel. “I knew it” she says, snickering but totally grossed out, “but I’m so sorry, I just couldn’t help you! I can’t handle vomit” she goes on. Leaning on the bench I sighed “my camera doesn’t work…?” Told you I’m classy. A week later I took my water proof camera to get fixed. They investigated saying there was a clear sticky substance inside it. Hmmm, explanation, “oh, really? Must be lemonade from the kids…”
When your bestie is having a tough time, a night chatting over a bottle Red is a must. Trouble with our chats, is they tend to last hours and by the end of a chat it can result in a few bottles of Red being consumed. Generally speaking, Red will creep up on you. You can drink it most of the night and it’s not until you put your head on a pillow that you realise that perhaps four bottles between the two of you is maybe overdoing it? This night in particular we drained five, I think? Life was stressful and we were letting our hair down. So, I roll out my sleeping bag on the couch and jump into my husbands worst nightmare, my onsie, and lay down ready for a nap. As soon as my head hit the pillow it rolled, and it rolled and it spun. Open your eyes, I tell myself, that will stop it, so focusing on something still rebalances my drunk brain and my eyes close again. Fuck! Swirl, swiiiirl, whiiiirl, whirl and all in one long slow movement I roll from the couch tangled in my sleeping bag that is dragging on my onsie and I stumble to the kitchen sink with my hands slammed into my face. This is NOT my home. Just as I lean to the sink the hot, steaming sick sprays from between my fingers and over the sink and part the bench. Red liquid with black clots of stained who knows what. Patches of it dribbled down my onsie, and slicked over my face. Fuck me, really? Dish cloth!! Cold water running, and I clean myself and the bench up. Cloth in the bin. Wow, I do feel better now. Ha. Back to the couch and two seconds later asleep. Not even sure if my bestie knows? ha ha.
I guess the main contributing factor to these three events is the consumption of alcohol. Not a good thing, I know, but living is living and for me these three nights of vomit went hand in hand with a really great memory, prior to the puking. I try not to vomit, but it happens to the best of us, and if I am honest, in my forty years I have kept it to a minimum. Perhaps one good vomit every three or four years? Yeah I know I need to be a good role model, and this is me being a human, and classy.
Thank God there are no videos…
I could do another blog about the people in my life and their vomit stories, so prior to giving me a hard time about this… just make sure I’ve not been witness to any of your finer moments, because I have seen very, VERY many of them.
Make sure you turn the teapot twice clockwise and once anticlockwise!