Tag Archives: vomit

Rub, rub, barf. This one’s all over the place.

23 May

There was a moment during my most recent massage (the one following the fire-alarm facial) when I’m pretty sure I heard my masseuse gag. She was pregnant, in her first trimester, and – as I lay face-down on the table – I heard her swallow a wave of nausea.

It got me wondering how many people have ever been barfed on in the middle of a professional massage.

I mean, surely it’s happened to someone. I want to interview that person.

Suddenly, my massage was mentally hijacked… in my best Barbara Walters’ voice, I imagined myself prompting, “So Donna. You were face-down, expecting a relaxing massage. Take us back to that moment. When did you realize you were bathed in vomit rather than massage oil?”

At some point, I realized that it was probably not natural to spend a portion of one’s massage contemplating a half-digested shower, so I tried to push the thought from my mind and relax. But then another – equally horrifying – thought occurred to me. What if it wasn’t her pregnancy that made her gag? What if it was ME?

I started a paranoid accounting of myself. Toe nails… trimmed and painted… No flabbier than the average client. No warts on my feet… Legs shaved… I’d showered right before my massage so no chance of my feet smelling funky.

And then it occurred to me: SPIDER BITES.

I’d woken up the night before with itchy legs and found two huge welts (dare I say HIVES) on my leg, each with a perfect dot in the center. They were bigger than mosquito bites, so – even though it was 3 am – I woke Alan up, turned on the light, and tossed the bed looking for whatever bit me.

I didn’t find it, but I figured I’d probably either killed or displaced it with my flurry of activity, so I was able to go back to sleep.

But lying on the massage table with two huge welts on my legs that looked like botfly larvae might burst forth at any moment? A person wouldn’t need to be pregnant to want to puke.

Speaking of – I actually don’t think I can finish this post. I just bounced over to Google images to see if I could find a “funny botfly larvae” photo to illustrate this story. That was a HORRIBLE idea. Those words should never be in the same search string. Take my word for this.

And so it is… only in my world can a massage lead to a fantasy that ultimately tracks to parasitic worms. No wonder I never seem relaxed.

Suggestion: Please eat off a plate. Not off your baby.

28 Jul

At Whole Foods tonight, I was about to help myself to a chunk of gruyere, until I saw a toddler break free of his dad, run to the cheese station, stick his hands above his head and wildly jam them in the opening of the cheese stand feeling for any pieces of cheese he could grab.

At that point, I kind of threw up in my mouth. Needless to say, I passed on the gruyere.

Something about babies’ and toddlers’ hands and mouths disgust me. Maybe it’s because I’m completely lacking a maternal instinct, or maybe it’s because – as often as not – these parts of kids are coated with some unidentifiable greenish-yellow mucus. Call me crazy, but I would rather eat a grape off my toilet seat than let a child hold it before putting it in my mouth.

Perhaps one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever witnessed is this move: Mother is spoon-feeding her child… Food misses kid’s mouth and ends up all around it… Mother cleans up face by collecting the puree in a spoon – then eats it herself… ACK!

And that’s why I don’t have babies: I would be a non-stop puking machine. Then again, I might actually stand a chance of losing the baby weight.

No. Don’t worry: I will not reproduce.

You’re welcome.