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I Barf Like I Bake Cookies

November 24, 2010

There are a few things I’m quite good at: drinking wine, pole dancing and sex education to name a few. One thing I am a very, very bad at is barfing. I know I’ve complained that my husband is the suckiest sicky alive, but when it comes to blowing chunks, I’m like a bad horror flick from the 70’s come to life.

My friend’s parents moved a few years ago and there was still a stain near their toilet (not in, or even around, but near) from my gin-and-cream-soda-do-not-mix debacle of 1986. My mom once gave me Eno (the medicine, not the musician) for an upset tummy and I thanked her by going all Linda Blair on her ass.

Like this. Exactly like this.

When we moved across the country as newlyweds, my husband and I would spend Saturdays exploring our new city. On our first weekend, I made the grave error of eating a street vendor hot dog (I know, right? I wasn’t even drunk!)

Back at our apartment a few hours later, I started to tell my husband that I might be sick, but before the words were out of my mouth, street meat and everything else I’d eaten in the past five years were being spewed around the living room like an unplugged fire hydrant (I swear to God, gum I’d swallowed in the third grade made an appearance).

My husband just stood in the doorway, staring at me in mortified disgust, until I slumped back on the couch. He took in the carnage on the floor, walls and furniture, looked back at me, and said, “Where in the f*ck is the cat?” Then he left the room, but poked his head around the corner and added, “We’re gonna have to move.”

Never again.

My son is equally lame when he pukes – he flops all over the place and we have to practically restrain him with a bucket strapped to his face (like a feedbag on a horse). My daughter is a stellar barfer. She just says, “I sick”, leans over a bucket and spits (like a cowboy shooting chew into a spittoon).

And the serb? He claims not to have puked since 1986. It would be more impressive if he didn’t claim death was imminent every time he gets the sniffles.

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7 Comments leave one →
  1. November 24, 2010 9:53 am

    Bahhahhaa!!! I never thought I’d find a barf story so funny! I’m not even sure if it’s appropriate to say thanks for sharing! Oh, and I’m sure you bake cookies much better than you hurl! Your baking skills cannot be that bad… hopefully! If it is, I pitty those who eat them! lol 🙂

    • November 24, 2010 11:07 pm

      Read the cookie fairy fail post…my cookies suck even worse than my puking finesse…

  2. November 24, 2010 3:00 pm

    Lori – I feel like you are trying to send me a message… It’s the day before Thanksgiving, I always overeat and joke that bulimia is the answer. (I know Bulimia is not a joking matter, but I never claimed to be in good taste). But after reading your post, I think you are trying to remind me that barfing is no picnic either. So now what? Eat less? That’s a dumb idea. Barf? Not looking so good anymore. What’s a food loving, poor judgment girl to do?

    • November 24, 2010 11:08 pm

      Ha – sorry, toots! We had Thanksgiving ages ago – did not mean to spoil your pig out! I think the best idea is to go in phases…start eating at around 9am and space the meal out until around 8pm or so…let me know how that goes… 😉

  3. November 26, 2010 11:52 am

    I’m just reading this now because I’ve been barfing all week and figured, correctly, that this would make me want to chuck again. Poor you – I’m a barf queen. My poor kid looked all horrified yesterday when I did it…I just said no baby it makes mommy feel better…je-sus. That freaking linda blair picture is one giant bit of revolting…

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