Two Words. Projectile. Vomit. When I say it in my head, it feels more like a paragraph than two simple words. Once upon a time, I was uncomplicated, unspoiled…and well, puke free. Back in those days, projectile vomit was something I had heard of but never experienced. It was that funny thing that happened to Frat Boys who had eaten bad chicken wings the night before a bender.
In any case – did you know that stuff can actually launch 6 feet? I sure as hell didn’t. It was a scene straight out of the Exorcist (which, incidentally – I always thought was contrived; the barf scenes that is). How terribly mistaken I was!
I was awoken in the wee hours of the morning by the bellowing cries of my infant daughter. I rushed down to her crib. I pick her up…as she is facing away from me (and now, I look back and all I can think is, “Sweet Jesus…thank you for that.”), I move to her changing table b/c something just doesn’t smell right. Oh, little did I know…that the smell I thought was the meager “stinky-poo” my bundle of love had made was really Hades reincarnate trying to escape the Underworld via the porthole of my baby’s mouth.
Upchuck hurled out in a fire-hose blast that was so powerful, it knocked me backwards. I stood transfixed. It went full force and nailed a wall easily 5 feet away. I must have screamed, as my husband ran downstairs. He called my name, "Cathy?". I turned. The hork followed suit. In a stream lasting what probably was a sum of 30 seconds, I took out 3 out of 4 bedroom walls, a crib, a changing table, a rocking chair, two dressers, a toy box, much of the floor, the dog and the front of my now appalled husband. Immediately, my twisted mind thought, “If we could unleash this power properly; we’ll never have to pay to power wash the house again.”
The baby, unscathed in this whole extravaganza, burped once (to which, I almost dropped her on the floor and ran for my life) and passed right out. It was in that precise moment, I realized that the saying “sleeping like a baby” meant you could wake up screaming, yak your guts out and go right on back to sleep without a care in the world…the next time someone says, “Oh, she’s sleeping like a baby.” I’m bolting for the door.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
Inna Wata!
Recently, my husband & I were invited out on a local harbor cruise with some friends. The cruise was touted as being a Jamaican cruise. My friends are Jamaican. There was reggae, there was bumping, there was curried goat, there was no rum punch…I was disappointed. I digress. Let me describe Liv. Liv is a (this is an official Jamaican term, btw) BIG DOOD – he’s about 6’5”, braided hair, with a charming and easy-going smile. His wife, Thalia, always looks like she is up to trouble. Of course, this means that she & I get along extremely well – even if she still thinks she is in the motherland and drives on the wrong side of the road from time to time. I've learned to wear a seat belt.
Prior to departing my house, she informs me of the monumental importance of this trip; as Liv is afraid of the water. He cannot swim. “In fact, “ she says, “probably 90% of Jamaicans can’t swim.” I don’t laugh at her joke…if only I knew then [shaking head]. We park the car. I ask what boat we are taking. “Di Titanic” is growled at me from somewhere in the front seat. Ok….these folk certainly are weird. But, hey! I dig culture as much as the next person…not to mention Rum Punch. We board the boat.
I notice that not many people are near the side of the boat. In fact, everyone kind of congregates right in the middle of the boat. The boat pitches gently, and a few shouts of, “Lawd Gad! Hav mercy!” can be heard, and I am struck dumfounded. These people really ARE afraid of the water! We sit down, and I lean across the table to Thalia, “You were born on an island for God’s sake…how can none of you [looking around] NONE OF YOU?!?! swim?” She stares at me and answers plain as day that most do not expect to have to swim off the island at any point in their lives. Again, I’m rendered speechless.
Liv joins us. He immediately notes the lifejackets over in the cabinets on the side of the main room, “Di life jacket dem ova deh so.” He looks petrified. At this point, I’ve already come to learn there is no rum punch aboard this vessel, and now I take it out on Liv, “Right. Also notice how many people are on the Titanic here…and how many preservers there are. I’m not good with numbers, but I suspect som di fok be gwon over wit no jacket.” [Thalia loves when I attempt Liv’s accent, and I love that I even understood what the hell he said.] We all get up for a bit.
I found myself randomly asking folks if they could swim. The resounding answer was, “NO!” People stared at me goggle-eyed before moving on…Fascinating. As the evening wore on, the hubs & I found ourselves on the side of the bow, facing the serene & tranquil water. I took a load off and sat on the railing for the briefest of moments. I must have had 15 people shout at me from various distances (depending on their direct fears of coming too close to the crazy woman who might jump), “Wat ye do? Git offa dere! CHO!” I’m sick in the head…at this point, I’d hook my leg onto the railing and lean over hollering, “Ruuuuuuuum Punnnnnnnnnch!” People screamed and darted away. I don’t know that I’ll be invited back.
Prior to departing my house, she informs me of the monumental importance of this trip; as Liv is afraid of the water. He cannot swim. “In fact, “ she says, “probably 90% of Jamaicans can’t swim.” I don’t laugh at her joke…if only I knew then [shaking head]. We park the car. I ask what boat we are taking. “Di Titanic” is growled at me from somewhere in the front seat. Ok….these folk certainly are weird. But, hey! I dig culture as much as the next person…not to mention Rum Punch. We board the boat.
I notice that not many people are near the side of the boat. In fact, everyone kind of congregates right in the middle of the boat. The boat pitches gently, and a few shouts of, “Lawd Gad! Hav mercy!” can be heard, and I am struck dumfounded. These people really ARE afraid of the water! We sit down, and I lean across the table to Thalia, “You were born on an island for God’s sake…how can none of you [looking around] NONE OF YOU?!?! swim?” She stares at me and answers plain as day that most do not expect to have to swim off the island at any point in their lives. Again, I’m rendered speechless.
Liv joins us. He immediately notes the lifejackets over in the cabinets on the side of the main room, “Di life jacket dem ova deh so.” He looks petrified. At this point, I’ve already come to learn there is no rum punch aboard this vessel, and now I take it out on Liv, “Right. Also notice how many people are on the Titanic here…and how many preservers there are. I’m not good with numbers, but I suspect som di fok be gwon over wit no jacket.” [Thalia loves when I attempt Liv’s accent, and I love that I even understood what the hell he said.] We all get up for a bit.
I found myself randomly asking folks if they could swim. The resounding answer was, “NO!” People stared at me goggle-eyed before moving on…Fascinating. As the evening wore on, the hubs & I found ourselves on the side of the bow, facing the serene & tranquil water. I took a load off and sat on the railing for the briefest of moments. I must have had 15 people shout at me from various distances (depending on their direct fears of coming too close to the crazy woman who might jump), “Wat ye do? Git offa dere! CHO!” I’m sick in the head…at this point, I’d hook my leg onto the railing and lean over hollering, “Ruuuuuuuum Punnnnnnnnnch!” People screamed and darted away. I don’t know that I’ll be invited back.
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