January 24, 2008
Sheila Asks (on Behalf of Mrs. Shields)
In the spirit of Aaron Asks: Any favorite expressions for the act of vomiting?
There’s a story behind this.
Fifth grade. Music class. Teacher: Mrs. Shields, who was our music teacher throughout grade school.
Class just commencing; kids still jawing — when what does Mrs. Shields hear but a fragmentary eruption ” . . . urp — and wipe it on Dennis . . . ”
A gasp from Mrs. Shields. “Who said that?”
“I did.”
“Well, Sheila, I wouldn’t have expected that from you.” (Mrs. Shields never quite knew what to make of Sheila, a well-read little girl who enjoyed serious music — Bach, Mozart, et cetera — almost as much as she liked playing the fool for an audience.)
“Class, who can think of a nicer word for what Sheila just said?”
And so the fifth-graders offered their family’s preferred terms — throw up, vomit, be sick . . . (Sheila just naturally had to say ‘regurgitate’.) Dale Blair raised his hand and allowed as how, “My daddy says ‘puke’.” Another gasp from Mrs. Shields. “Well, he shouldn’t say that in front of you and your sister.”
But none of the children guessed the very best word, Mrs. Shields’s favorite word, the nicest word for what Sheila said, and this seemed to please Mrs. Shields, as it gave her the opportunity to not quite stifle a coy smile and announce:
“The word is . . . up-chuck.”
‘flockers . . . friends . . . can you think of other ways to express what Mrs. Shields said?
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17 Responses to “Sheila Asks (on Behalf of Mrs. Shields)”
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worship the porcelain god.
ralph.
“Hork” or “hurl”.
“Toss cookies”, “lose lunch”, and, my personal favorite, “spew”.
I like laughing at the carpet.
Once, during my college years, I saw a man passed out on a reclined chair. He projectile vomitted over his feet and on to the floor in front of him. It was a glorious arc.
when Amy and I were courting I had a round of food poisoning and my heat went out. she came over to check up on me and brought me some gatorade. I downed the son of a bitch and realized I had to get to the bathroom pronto. halfway there I realized that wasn’t going to happen and a torrent of ‘is it in you’ the width of a fire-hose and at least six feet long emanated from my mouth almost to the kitchen. it was twenty six degrees outside (and in). needless to say, it steamed.
I’ll not share the details of my own projectile vomiting while driving southbound on Lake Shore Drive.
But I will tell you how members of the Gang of Six* speak of vomiting. If, for instance, I feel the need to tell Cooper that I was sick as a dog and threw up, I will tell him that I “lost my pin”. If a week, say, has elapsed since the event, it will be said that “Sheila has a one-week pin”. One’s metaphorical pin, you see, denotes and to some extent celebrates a period of time during which one’s gorge has stayed put.
Among persons known to me, the recordholder is my main man, Jon, who circa 1999 lost his forty-year pin.
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*My circle of six longtime friends; a group including Cooper Renner who coalesced in junior high school.
spit up
barf
yack
splorf
technicolor yawn
storm surge
I had a bad fried clam at Legal Seafood at Reagan National in DC just before climbing on a Midwest Express flight back to KC. Long about a third of the way back, I looked over at Danny and said, “You know I don’t think I feel so good.” Then I went to the back and occupied the little room for the next two-point-five hours. Sitting and standing alternately. Just before landing, the flight attendant knocked, “Sir, you’ll have to come out while we land.”
“Can I sit in the back row?”
“Yes.”
As soon as the plane stopped at the gate, I went back in. After everyone deplaned, Danny knocked. “Our gate is right across from the bathroom.” I left my cozy room, walked directly up the aisle, up the jetway, across the concourse and directly into a stall.
Our friend Crash was there to pick us up. Danny had picked up a couple-three barf bags from the plane, he stole a garbage bag from the trash can in the airport restroom for me to sit on in Crash’s car, “Just in case.”
I hurled one last time into a barf bag in Crash’s car. Then half-slept the rest of the forty-minute drive home. Crawled right into bed, slept twelve hours. Got up brushed my teeth and ate breakfast like I’d never seen food before.
Ah, Rick. Your tale prompts me to offer a public service announcement — even though I very much doubt any ‘flocker or friend of the ‘flock would do what I warn against. I certainly wouldn’t have had I not been “coming into Los Angeles”* in the hours before dawn, tired and hungry and dazed and confused.
Do not eat at the Denny’s right near LAX.
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*”flying on a big airliner”
Food poisoning. Yay.
First time for me, early 90s in South Carolina. Sound engineering gig (we called ‘em gigs) at a meeting at a nice coastal golf resort. Shrimp Caesar salad for lunch at a fancy clubhouse. 72 hours of the most amazing vomiting and diarrhea. Had to lie down underneath the audio mixing board during rehearsal.
Second time was about five years ago right after starting my present job. Arby’s. The source of the FP, not my job. Not as bad as the first time but bad enough to make me very sad.
Third time was two years ago in Hong Kong. I’d been terrified of getting sick the whole ten days I was in China, and got bit on my last night. In mainland China for most of the trip I’d been using bottled water to brush my teeth, for God’s sake. Try flying for 15 hours when you’re feeling that fine. Ironically, after all the weird stuff I ate over there, I think I got FP from some fish and chips I had at a funky little pub in Port Stanley.
I’m not talking “48 hour flu”. My first and third times were about me wondering if I was going to die far from my home and family. Ack.
Rarely does food poisoning knock me down. When it does, I am both surprised and affronted. I have the proverbial cast-iron stomach, and I flat-out resent successful assaults on it.
I mean, I eat stuff that’s been sitting out for days.
Sheila, I’m the opposite. I’ve had food poisoning probably a half dozen times in the past ten years. it sucks. I hate hate hate it. I may be underestimating.
OK, OK. One more. I was, oh, I don’t know, thirteen, fourteen? We lived in Cherry Valley in an “almost” two story house, that is to say the tall attic had been panelled to become two bedrooms and storage. The stairs up were nearly as steep as a ladder. Still my brother and I were able to descend them by sliding our hands along down the rails leaning into them and “vaulting” down. We could make it in one step.
Ah, but I digress. In the wee hours one morning, I was visited by the barf-fairy. I lay in bed until I knew I had to get there.
“Now!”
I jumped up ran down the hallway and let go of my gorge from the top. Nary a drop touched the stairs. Still hurrying, but being “careful,” I half-vaulted down, hit the slick on the linoleum floor at the bottom. My heels flew upward. I slid halfway across the kitchen.
My Dad, up from all the commotion, in his tighty-white Hanes, and only second to me in his desire to avoid chucking up, said, “Oh, my goodness! Ricky Cameron!”
Tales from the Vomitorium.
Rick, these two lines are priceless:
I was visited by the barf-fairy.
&
“Oh, my goodness! Ricky Cameron!”
Sheila, I think you’ve summed this up nicely.
Deron (and Rick!), those two lines are the precise ones that made me delirious!
Oh, say, before we abandon this topic, I think it behooves y’all to know that once upon a time Renner was obliged to pull his car over to the shoulder out by Mountain Creek Lake so that I could open the door, hang out my head, and heave like there was no tomorrow.
This was in the very early 1970s; as I recall, ‘whoop’ (’oo’ as in ‘book’) was the word favored within our immediate circle.