Nothing says “Good Morning” like getting out of the shower and having to hand your towel to your wife so she can barf all over it, since she already spewed all over the carpet.
For reasons I do not totally understand, my entire family treats the master bedroom like a contemporary version of the ancient Roman vomitorium. It seems like whenever someone needs to puke, the destination of choice is our bedroom. Maynard the cat, who, you will recall, is already on my black list for waking me up several times a night is a serial barfer and is known for leaving piles of yakk all over the house but especially prefers to hurl right in front of the TV armoire. Charlotte, on the other hand, likes to heave in the bed itself, preferrably on MY side. Harry the cat, who really doesn’t upchuck all that much comparatively, tends to quietly deposit hairballs in the more obscure corners of the room. And now Bridget adds the contents of her stomach to the formerly off-white but now multi-colored carpet right in front of my bedside table, perilously close to where I keep my shoes.
Hmm? What’s that you say? Puke into the toilet? Or at least the tile floor of the bathroom? Pshaw! Why puke someplace where it can be quickly and easily cleaned up when you can hork up right on some nice partial-shag carpet?
(Me? Well, I haven’t vomited in years, and I’d like to keep it that way, thanks)
So, um, is Bridget okay?
Yes. I called her a little while ago to make sure she wasn’t still feeling sick, and she reports being fine. She takes a pain reliever for her bum knee that induces nausea.
At least now I know where to head if I start to feel queasy.
Is she pregnant? hehehe