Here’s the Single Most Disgusting Thing to Happen, Ever
OK, so normally I try really hard not to write about the same topic twice. I’ll sometimes go out of my way to avoid writing about something I covered in 2003. So for me to repeat from a mere two weeks ago, especially this particular topic, well, I wouldn’t do it unless an extraordinary circumstance was involved.
In this case, there most definitely was an extraordinary circumstance. An extraordinary, disgusting, revolting circumstance.
In the event that you didn’t read my column from November 13, I’ll warn you now that it was about, ahem, vomit. I’d spent the better part of a sleepless night helping my older daughter, Gustavo (not her real name), through a somewhat unsavory bout of stomach flu. It was a disgusting thing to experience, and an equally disgusting thing to write about.
Now, before I go any further, I’m going to warn you once again. If you’re in the middle of eating, or are about to eat, or are planning to eat at some point this week, or even if you just want to be the slightest bit discerning about what you read, you might want to stop reading now. Seriously. If you continue after this point, I can’t be held responsible for any subsequent loss of appetite, breakfast, and/or self-esteem.
Still with me? Yeah, I figured as much. Sicko.
Remember, you were warned.
So on Saturday, we’d all woken up a bit early, and we thought it would be fun to go get a big weekend breakfast. I tell you what, few things in life get me as excited as the prospect of going out for breakfast. Biscuits and gravy, pancakes, coffee, hash browns, bacon, I order one of everything. By the time we got the kids bundled up for the cold morning, I was practically skipping around like Richard Simmons at a slumber party.
When we got to the restaurant, little Chi Chi (not her real name), my 6-year-old daughter, said that she wanted to order fried eggs. Not only did this come as a surprise to me, since I’d never seen her eat fried eggs, but in hindsight, this information also seemed, I don’t know, ironic.
The hostess told us there would be about a 40-minute wait for a table. A 40-minute wait with three impatient kids didn’t seem like the greatest of times, but I had my heart set on some tasty vittles, so we chose to stick it out.
Many minutes passed. We shuffled around the restaurant’s gift shop, killing time. Whenever I found something cool, I called the kids over, enjoyed their excited reactions, then informed them that they could not have it. You’d be amazed how many times in a row you can get a kid to fall for this.
I checked my watch. Our time was drawing nigh. Sweet victory over morning hunger was near. Chi Chi tugged the leg of my jeans and informed me that she needed to use the bathroom. I walked her to the ladies’ room and told her I’d wait right outside.
A few minutes passed, and I started to become a bit concerned. I spotted Colette nearby and waved her over, asking her to go check on Chi Chi.
At that exact moment, however, Chi Chi emerged from the bathroom. That was the good news. The bad news was that she was sobbing hysterically.
The worse news, as she then informed me, was that she’d spent her time in the bathroom throwing up.
Colette and I exchanged a wide-eyed look. Not good. And of all the rotten timing - I hadn’t even gotten a single whiff of biscuits and gravy. Although, to be honest, the idea of country gravy had suddenly become slightly less appetizing in the wake of Chi Chi’s news flash.
Colette shuffled the still-sobbing Chi Chi back into the bathroom. The rest of us stood in the gift shop, unsure of what to do next. Breakfast was definitely out of the question. I gathered up Gustavo and my step-daughter, Melon Ball (not her real name), and told them the bad news.
Chi Chi and Colette came back out of the bathroom. Chi Chi looked pale and was still crying a little. Colette shrugged. “She didn’t get sick in there,” she said. “But she’s really upset. I’m not sure what we should do.”
I felt bad for poor little Chi Chi, who seemed a more than a little frightened by the entire experience. “Come on, let’s get you home,” I said as I picked her up to comfort her.
And then Chi Chi threw up on my face.
Yeah, that’s right. My daughter threw up on my face.
I told you to stop reading, but you just couldn’t listen, could you?
For a moment, time in that crowded, busy gift shop ceased to exist. Every person with a clear line of sight to what had just happened froze in place and gaped at the carnage before them.
Splashes of what had just been in Chi Chi’s stomach were on my face, all over my leather jacket, and all over the floor. But that wasn’t the worst of it. I realized, as I stood there in dumbfounded horror, that my beloved child had not just thrown up in my face. I apparently had still been talking when Chi Chi exploded. As a result, she had also thrown up in my mouth.
My child. Had thrown up. In my mouth.
All I could stand to do was make a sort of guttural “urrrh” sound as I set Chi Chi back down on the floor. Anything more articulate than that would have required me to close my mouth or move my tongue, and sweet lord in heaven, that was the last thing I wanted to do.
Colette whisked Chi Chi back into the women’s room. I glanced at Gustavo and Melon Ball, saw that they had been rendered both motionless and speechless, concluded that they weren’t going anywhere, and dashed into the men’s room.
When I entered, both sinks were occupied by dudes washing their hands. “I nee a shink,” I croaked, in a tone intended to brook no resistance. The dudes at the sink took one look at me and, with hands still dripping and soapy, got the hell out of my way.
I could not rinse my mouth often enough, but I tried. I rinsed and repeated about five thousand times, then cleaned the rest of me as quickly as I could. What I really wanted to do was go for a swim in a hot tub full of bleach, but the bathroom sink sufficed for the moment.
By the time I was done, Colette and the girls were ready to leave. One of the restaurant employees had been kind enough to clean up the mess Chi Chi made on the floor. All I wanted to do was go home and shove my head in the dishwasher.
And then the hostess called our name. Our table was ready. It was somehow par for the course.
So, the way I figure it, I have now qualified for the Daddy Hall Of Fame. I know there’s no such thing as the Daddy Hall Of Fame, but I don’t care. I’m in it. I could accidentally sell my kids to a meat-packing plant next week and it wouldn’t matter. I’m in. Do you hear me? I’m in. I have to be. Otherwise I endured having my delightful little girl chowder in my mouth for no good reason whatsoever.
And we all know that fate could never be that cruel.
Right?
