Holiday Chunder
I always used to vomit on Christmas.
There was the time I was so excited by the prospect of Santa having brought me a working model steam engine that I puked in the morning before we went in to open presents. Apparently, I had no food in my stomach because all that came up was a green phlegm. “That’s bile,” explained my mom, giving me a lesson in physiology along with my Christmas gifts.
And then there was the time, a few years later when, having had my first glass ever of cheap bubbly wine with dinner, I spun merrily around the living room for a while, before barfing up Christmas dinner on my bedroom rug, and falling groggily into bed. I remember Mom and Dad conjecturing whether it was the alcohol that caused me to vomit or if I was just overexcited; I’m pretty sure Mom’s point was just that I was just exhausted from the big day; I seem to recall Dad saying it had more to do with the big glass of Cold Duck I had imbibed.
In any case, yesterday, bucking tradition, I suffered no such bouts of projectile dyspepsia, in spite of eating and drinking enough to make Orson Wells himself cry “uncle.”
We had an impromptu dinner party with a dozen or so grownup and a handful of kids, the adults crowding around enchiladas in the dining room, the youngsters glued to Austin Powers in the TV room. Merriment ensued for several hours and a new Xmas tradition was born which surprisingly featured no one upchucking—at least not at our house.
And then somehow, probably still running on the fumes of yesterday’s festivities (or the lingering spirits of yesterday’s spirits), Mimi, Jen, and I managed to pull it together to pack ourselves into the car for a two-day trip to Orcas Island, where at the Doe Bay Resort, we will look at the water, read books, and try to finish leftovers.
There was the time I was so excited by the prospect of Santa having brought me a working model steam engine that I puked in the morning before we went in to open presents. Apparently, I had no food in my stomach because all that came up was a green phlegm. “That’s bile,” explained my mom, giving me a lesson in physiology along with my Christmas gifts.
And then there was the time, a few years later when, having had my first glass ever of cheap bubbly wine with dinner, I spun merrily around the living room for a while, before barfing up Christmas dinner on my bedroom rug, and falling groggily into bed. I remember Mom and Dad conjecturing whether it was the alcohol that caused me to vomit or if I was just overexcited; I’m pretty sure Mom’s point was just that I was just exhausted from the big day; I seem to recall Dad saying it had more to do with the big glass of Cold Duck I had imbibed.
In any case, yesterday, bucking tradition, I suffered no such bouts of projectile dyspepsia, in spite of eating and drinking enough to make Orson Wells himself cry “uncle.”
We had an impromptu dinner party with a dozen or so grownup and a handful of kids, the adults crowding around enchiladas in the dining room, the youngsters glued to Austin Powers in the TV room. Merriment ensued for several hours and a new Xmas tradition was born which surprisingly featured no one upchucking—at least not at our house.
And then somehow, probably still running on the fumes of yesterday’s festivities (or the lingering spirits of yesterday’s spirits), Mimi, Jen, and I managed to pull it together to pack ourselves into the car for a two-day trip to Orcas Island, where at the Doe Bay Resort, we will look at the water, read books, and try to finish leftovers.
posted by Professor Dave at 9:33 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home