No, that’s preparation for parenthood. Trust me, this was not the last time you’ll do that. Hands (and your own clothing) are a LOT easier to clean than carpet.
…dude (dudette?) - you own me a new monitor!
No. Her childhood was bad enough without that sort of news.
I’ve got a puke one to add to the pile, as it were.
Picture this: Bayonne, NJ, New Years Eve 2003. I’m at my ex-boyfriend’s apartment. (I lived, at the time, about an hour and a half away.) We’re hanging out, watching some crappy movie, having some snacks when, suddenly, I need to puke.
At this point in my life, I was 21 and hadn’t puked since I was, maybe, 8. I have a stomach of steel, and an immune system to match. The salmonella outbreak at my undergrad didn’t phase me, nor did the stomach infection I came down with at a football game in high school. I, as a rule, do not puke.
But oh, boy, was I puking. I thought, until that moment, that projectile vomit was a fairy tale made up to make movies more amusing. Oh, no. No no no. I ran to the bathroom, barely got the toilet seat up, and was praying to the porcelain god for forgiveness for whatever sin I could have committed that was so bad as to make my stomach no longer want to remain in my body. It was bad. It was so, so bad.
But it got worse.
Because I realized that my stomach had two escape routes in mind, and thus, I suddenly needed to be both sitting on the toilet and puking into it, simultaneously. Seeing as this is not physically possible, I figured the sitting was more important and got my pants and everything down and then I sat. But I still had to puke, and seeing no other option (the bile clearly having gone to my head, because both a sink and a garbage can were handy), I puked in my underwear. Just leaned right over.
This lasted maybe an hour, and by the end I really didn’t care where I was puking. At some point I or my ex-boyfriend had called my parents to let them know I was clearly dying, and my father, brother, and father’s best friend put a bucket in the backseat of said best friend’s brand new Volvo and drove up to Bayonne to collect me and my car.
I subsequently got my entire family and the best friend’s family sick with the same horror. The ex-boyfriend never got sick, even though he had to clean puke off of the walls. This should have been a sign of his evil powers, but alas I did not learn my lesson till later.
And that, my friends, is the story of how I puked in my underwear.
slow golf clap
I refer to this incident as Puke-A-Mania. When I was 19 or so, I used to sneak into this one nasty hole in the wall bar with some friends. One friend was a waiter who had a particularly good night- he had made something like $500 and was ready to blow it all on something stupid. What better than alcohol? There were 4 of us, and we ran up a $200 bar tab that night.
As I am absolutely wasted, I have my best friend drive me home. On the way there, I start to feel sick. He, to this day, claims that all he heard was me saying “Uh oh,” and then “wet sounds.” I puked up the remains of chicken fingers not only all down my own body, but somehow covered the entire backseat with my vomit. I puked down into the map holders on the car door. When we got home, I paid my best friend to clean up the car so my parents wouldn’t know. He said there was puke where my body should have been. He did his best, but this was August and after baking in the morning sun while I slept off my hangover the next day, the smell of fossilized puke was strong in there.
But I think the really unsettling part is that even now, almost three years later, I will sometimes find a puke-crusted bit of chicken finger in one of the crannies of my vehicle.
My brother had one of those. His was on his penis.
I would give more details, but I don’t have them, as I have refused to hear them going on ten years now.
Mine is on a slightly different tack:
Vacationing in Costa Rica. Drank like sailors the night before. Knowing I would be hungover, I set a Coke out by the nightstand, drank half and saved the other half for the next morning.
Next morning rolls around, and yep - pretty hungover. Sat up next to the bed, took two huge gulps, then got up to head to the bathroom. “Boy I hate that hot and fizzy sensation of a warm Coke, but it’s better than nothing” I thought to myself as I was peeing.
Then, in my hangovfer fog, I began to notice a strange sensation about the “fizziness” so I turned on the light. Almost in slow motion, I saw in the mirror that my entire face, tongue, mouth, and hand holding Coke was crawling with large ants.
Well, yes, ok…I admit that I didn’t catch her vomit simply because I loved her. She had to throw up, there was nothing to catch it with, I stuck my hands out without even thinking about it. Though, I would do it again in a second for her if she needed me to 
YUCK!
After one of my very first “drunken nights out” I learned how useful it was to have a trash can next to the toilet. It really is an odd feeling to be spewing from both ends at the same time.
I’ve had a sheltered life, this is the most unsettling thing I remember.
Flashback to my childhood, I must be about six, my brother about 7 and a half. My dad is working on some home improvement project, and my brother is begging to “help” him. My dad gave him the drill and a piece of wood so that my brother could learn how to drill holes. My brother goes at it with gusto and a few moments later holds up the drill, with the drill bit sticking through his finger. My dad turns white and tells me “go get your mother” and I run towards the house screaming “[brother’s name] killed himself!” My mother comes flying out, my dad pulls the drill bit out of brother’s finger (by turning on the drill again and pulling fast, IIRC) and we all drive really fast to a doctor’s office. I was going to Catholic school and I still remember praying in the car that my brother wouldn’t die.
My mother went inside with my brother and I stayed outside with my dad. My mother came out and told my dad “the doctor (family doctor who knew all of us) wants to speak to you personally” but my father declined the offer and stayed outside.
Mine is not related puke but it was very unsettling to me.
It was summer and I was out of school and hanging out like a bum around the house. My best friend was playing on the computer and we were getting ready to watch a movie and eat lunch. I went down to my room to get some blankets. I had a water bed, which I thought was the coolest thing at the time, and I found it easiest to walk on the bed instead of crawl around. So, with my arms full of blankets and no view of the floor, I step off the edge of my bed. With four distinct pops, I was on my side on the floor very confused.
The week before I had just finished Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. I did with it what I did with all books I had recently finished; I threw it off the side of my bed and promptly forgot about it (the book, not the story).
The four distinct pops were the sounds of my ligaments ripping in my foot, caused by half stepping on a thick book.
I knew something was wrong but instead of calling my parents or an ambulance or something smart like that, I hobbled up the stairs and showed my foot to my friend. It had already swollen up and was actively turning purple. She agreed that it was broken.
This all happened around lunch time. At about 8 at night, my parents took me to the emergency room where they gave me crutches for a week and a boot for six weeks.
To this day, I can remember that sickening sound of my foot breaking. With all of my other breaks, I never heard anything like this.
France, 2000. We visit the Papal Palace at Avignon. We also stop at a little bistro in Avignon, where I am told that if I insist on eating nothing but salads, bread and cheese (budding vegetarian who knows that the fries in France are very tasty because they are still cooked in tallow) I will be very, very ill. My late father and stepmother have the pork.
That evening, my father sits down with a box of chocolates. The little marbled white and dark chocolates filled with hazelnut cream, shaped like snails. He eats damn near an entire box before getting a funny look on his face. Rather than go in one of the three downstairs bathrooms, he decides to run upstairs to puke in private. He never makes it, and hits a beautiful matte plaster wall. From about six feet up. He even gets a little on the ceiling.
My stepmother follows in suit, and they wind up in the master bathroom, firing out both ends, in tandem. Him on the toilet, her on the bidet. The pork was very, very bad. The guy who we rented the house from sent a long email later, as the puke had never quite come out of the wall and he’d had to paint the entire landing. And still the puke kept bleeding through it.
Sur le Pont d’Avignon, l’on y dance, l’on y dance.
I can’t help but feel somewhat responsible for the large amount of puke stories we’re now reading…
And so you should! (scroll down to “symptoms”) 
2002: I had recently moved from my home, relinquishing it to my wife (now ex). I was working as a Waiter/Bartender at a VERY upscale eatery. Got a call from the wife(ex) that her aging car was ailing and in desprate need of an alternator. Being the wannabe HERO, I went to salvage yard and got a replacement, drove 90 miles south to my house (ex house) replaced the alternator in the dark. I was COVERED in grease as the car was 15 yrs old and leeched oil but what the heck, I have a bottle of GoJo and know how to use it. All was well, I got to be a hero again…until…while adjusting the tension i ran two fingers THROUGH the tensioning pully. OUCH! Took off both fingernails and split open both fingertips, remember, my hands were BLACK with 15 yr old grease.
The only way to get cleaned, bandaged and back to work the next day was to use a scrub brush, Gojo and gasoline to cut the grease. Thankfully the wife (ex) let me crash before driving the 90 miles back home…she also had a few percocettes to dull the pain.
The puke and blood stories don’t phase me…my first job was as a housekeeper in a hospital, cleaning OR/ER and patient rooms. I got over getting squelchy real quick.
tsfr
This seems like the appropriate place to re-post this story:
The second part of the saga is that years later I was telling this story to some co-workers over lunch, when one co-worker suddenly turned purple, got up, and ran for the bathroom. Yes, I made her puke just through the sheer grossness of this story.
When Attacklass was a baby, I once got up from bed in the middle of the night to change her diaper. I was sleeping commando, and she had just finished breastfeeding. I held her across my chest with her head over my shoulder so that she could burp. Instead, she barfed breast milk down my back and into my butt crack.
When **Attacklad **was a baby, I was feeding him peas and carrots. He was finished, and I was picking the peas and carrots off of his face and clothing, and popping some of them in my mouth to expedite the process. The last pea was not a pea - it was snot on his cheek.
I’ll also quote myself from an OP back in 2008: My day was like a horror movie
Oh, man! That’s gross! Maggots in my eroded, profusely bleeding eye socket? EEEEEEEEWWWWWWW!
This actually grossed me out more than the maggots-in-the-eye-socket story (which didn’t gross me out at all, although I cringe thinking of the pain the woman must have experienced from the untreated cancer).
I’ll pass that on to Attacklad, he’ll be pleased.
When I was about fourteen, a family of squirrels took up residence in my parents’ house; specifically, in the drop ceiling of the finished basement. My dad, instead of hiring a professional, decided to try to get rid of them himself. And he thought that he’d gotten all of them out. . .
. . .until one morning, I walk downstairs. I’d woken up early for some reason, even though it was a day off, and had stumbled downstairs to watch VH1 before going back to bed. I turn on the lights downstairs, and I see all these light marks on the floor. In my dazed, glasses-less state, I blink down at them. At first, I think my dad’s just cut his nails downstairs again (my dad was a bit of a weird jerk). Then, upon closer inspection, I realize that the things were moving. . .
. . .maggots.
Now, my parents’ house is pretty damn neat and tidy. And there’d been no smell, like, ever. But there were a slew of maggots scattered across the floor in one area of the basement family room. So, you know, I did what most fourteen year-olds would do–I went back to bed and hoped I was dreaming.
When I got up again, it was around 10, and they were gone. My mom, however was horrified–she’s apparently terrified of maggots, and my dad had refused to clean it up. We never figured out what happened; I mean, apparently one of them died up there, but there was never any hint of a smell, and we never found a body. . .it was bizarre. And my dad’s still a jerk.