Orionoir's daughter's tale of vomit brought back memories. I was around ten. One night my parents went out to dinner with my brother and me. The restaurant was called Clara's (located on Madison Avenue in Muncie, Indiana -- just in case someone out there is googling it). I had a huge plate of spaghetti and meatballs, followed by some sort of dessert. I don't remember anyone else's selections other than the fact that my mother ordered a daiquiri instead of dessert. I was intrigued. I didn't know one could drink a daiquiri. The only daiquiri in my experience had been the lime daiquiri-flavored ice cream at Baskin Robbins. Sensing my interest, she offered me a taste. I took what to me seemed like a reasonably sized sip from her straw, but she complained that I had finished off her drink. (I still find this hard to believe.)
On the way home, I started feeling sick to my stomach. I could feel the pressure of explosive diarrhea building up, and it was worsening. We lived on the other side of town, so it was a fairly long drive. As soon as the car stopped, I entered the house and rushed to the bathroom. I couldn't even run by that point; I just sort of stumbled in.
Once on the toilet, I was suddenly and unexpectedly seized by the most violent stomach contractions I have ever experienced. The spaghetti blew out of my mouth with the force of a fire hose. My mouth filled so fast that even my open mouth couldn't output the vomitus as fast as it was filling. (Recall the walrus scene in 50 First Dates.) Vomit was everywhere. It was disgusting! I had to get out of there.
I ran to our second bathroom and plunked myself down on the toilet only to have it happen a third time. I finished up my business and got out as fast as I could. Needless to say, my parents were not thrilled with the situation. Barely in the door, they found both bathrooms inundated with barely digested spaghetti and meatballs.
On the bright side, I was feeling much better. But I made it clear that I was in no condition after that horrible ordeal to clean up vomit. Heck, I didn't even know how to clean up vomit. (I still don't.) My mother had become cranky for some reason, but she immediately started the cleanup efforts with my father.
I didn't actually witness the cleanup because of a further complication. Our two cats, Domino and Chew Chew became convinced that my vomit was high quality cat food (either that or they really wanted to help with the cleanup). My parents had to close the doors to both bathrooms to prevent the cats from getting in, which meant they had to seal themselves in with the vomit. The two kitties planted themselves outside the bathroom in which my parents labored. Domino mewed piteously. Chew Chew was less vocal. She had on her fierce jungle cat face and was eyeing the door alertly as if it led into a room filled with mice.
For some reason, this situation increased the parental stress level. There was a lot of shouting going on. My mother was apparently annoyed that my father could never do anything right. My father was exasperated and explained repeatedly that he would be more than happy to clean up the vomit any way she wanted if she would just explain the procedure clearly.
There was occasional movement between the two bathrooms, since both needed to be cleaned and cleaning supplies had to be transported back and forth. Whenever a door opened, a cat would try to push its way in. Then both cats would run after the parental unit, stopping in front of their food dish and waiting expectantly, as if convinced that my father was going to drop in a couple scoops of vomit.
We never ate at Clara's ever again. A few years later it burned down. But, thanks to the ordeal, the restaurant will live on forever as part of the Swartz family history. (As will Baskin Robbins, but that is another another story.) We all suffered greatly that day, each in a unique way, but I think it was the cats who suffered the most.