Yes, you read that right. This is the beginning of a series about vomit in our relationship. (There might end up being only two.) Oh boy are you in for something special!
The day after I got to California over Christmas break, Wife and I decided it was high time to do what all families with small children do when near Anaheim, California: take a lot of naps inside the house even though it’s really sunny out because you’re on vacation and you’re lazy.
But instead of doing that, we ended up waking up really early, packing a bunch of stuff, and getting ourselves ready to go to Disneyland. (Wow. That nap bit was hilarious. Good hook, Weed!)
I like Disneyland. And I like watching the girls at Disneyland. I was glad we were going.
As we and the girls’ cousins and grandparents and aunt and uncle were walking out the door, Wife said “hold on a minute” and ran into the bathroom and threw up a nice big throw up.
When she came out, she had a look on her face that said “I really shouldn’t be going to Disneyland today” but the words coming out of her mouth were “all right, let’s go! Get the girls loaded into the car!” *grimaces* *tries to pretend it’s a smile*
I tried to protest. “Sweetie, no,” I said. “You just threw up. That means you should be quarantined and should only be able to be in contact with people if you’re wearing a Hazmant suit and they are wearing doctor masks. Oh, and also, you need to rest so you can feel better. Moreover, naps….” But she wouldn’t hear it.
“I just ate some bad food. We’re going,” she insisted.
So, we all loaded into the car, and the girls were squealing with excitement. We caravanned (seriously spell check, is that not a verb? Did I spell it wrong?) with her parents, and all was going really well on the way to the Most Magical Place on Earth Besides a Wicca Convention until Wife needed us to pull over so that she could run into a gas station and vomit everywhere again. She was in there for a looong time.
Not sure if you know this about me, but I have a bit of a vomit phobia (called emetophobia) so, at this point, I was kinda freaking out and I was ready to call an ambulance to take all of us home and sedate us so that we could sleep calmly through the horrific effects of any bug that had infiltrated my careful system of not being in contact with any vomit ever for any reason and also washing my hands obsessively whenever I remembered to do so on occasion.
When Wife got back to the car, she looked like a mixture of death, beauty pageant excitement, and really bad gas. Her face was contorted into a foul grimace, but then as she approached the car she put on a very fake smile and tried to look excited. She hopped in and the first thing I said was “All right, back home we go…” and she grabbed my arm, looked me straight in the good eye, and said “My daughters are going to go to Disneyland today, and I am going to be with them. Stop trying to ruin this for everybody and MAN UP.” Except not in those exact words. But whatever she said, it was clear: we were going to Disneyland that day, come hell or high water filled with chunky vomit.
So on we went. We got to the theme park, gathered the girls, and got in line to buy tickets. There was some confusion at this point as different people and different families got in different lines for different tickets, but eventually we were all on the other side of the gates. All of us, that is, except Wife.
“Where’s Lolly(<—-Wife’s family nickname)?” asked everyone.
And then, she appeared. Sheepish, sick, and filled with the knowledge that she was treading on children’s dreams. “Where were you sweetie?” I asked.
“No, really. Where were you?”
“I was… throwing up in the bushes.”
Yes, that is correct. In some young child’s memory of their first trip to Disneyland, my wife is the dark character that sullied that pristine moment entering the gates. She was the one bent over in the mouse-eared-shaped bushes vomiting violently, in front of everyone. Welcome to Disneyland, the most magical place to throw up in the bushes on Earth!
I really wanted Wife to go home and rest because she looked like she might pass out, and I was sure she was infecting every person at Disneyland with a horrible disease, but she just kept right on going, trying to take pictures of the girls, and trying not to let her face look as miserable as she felt.
It didn’t work very well:
That video was while we were in line for Pirates of the Caribbean. I was nervous for her to go on that ride–all the sensory stimulation, the loud music, the drop, but somehow, like a true miracle, when we got out of that ride, Wife looked at me and said “I think I’m better now.”
And she was. Apparently she had just eaten something bad, and apparently she had spewed it all out of her esophagus successfully. And apparently all she needed was a nice soothing ride on a boat simulating the Caribbean with pirates dancing around to really feel better.
But she was still compromised for the rest of the day, and a little tired and out of it.
Which is why when she took Viva on Dumbo, she let Viva sit on her right even though she knew kids were supposed to sit on the left because Viva was getting upset and Wife just didn’t have the energy to fight her. And then they started the ride. And then they noticed Viva was in the wrong place, and they stopped the ride very quickly. And that’s when all the kids had to return their magic feathers and not fly again ever because Dumbo stopped working. For hours and hours.
Good work Viva and Wife!
I think there are a couple of morals to this story.
1. If you wish upon a star that the bad food that is making you throw up everywhere at Disneyland will stop making you sick so you can watch your girls ride rides, your dream will come true!
2. Disneyland is still fun even when someone is vomiting in the bushes.
3. Dumbo’s feather is a crock of crap.
PS, Viva also broke the Carousel when she decided to switch from sitting with Daddy to sitting with Mommy right before it started, but instead started wandering around defiantly and they had to stop the whole thing. Thankfully, though, they fixed that one in only a few minutes. (NO FEATHERS REQUIRED.)
Not sure if you noticed, but today isn’t Wednesday, and it’s also not Saturday. It’s Monday. And that is because I’m changing my posting days. (At some point, this will stick. Trust me. I know myself.)
So, the new schedule, for the seven of you who are waiting with bated breath, is that I will post on Mondays and Thursdays. YAY!!!
Next up: a post about me being a handyman. Because, boy am I. (Or the wedding picture post.) (Or another vomit post.) (All right I’m not sure what’s next, but it will probably be one of those things.) (Unless something terrifically hilarious happens before then that trumps them all.) (Goodbye and have a good Monday.)