Oh absolutely! I’ve caught baby puke on several occasions as well, and it really didn’t bother me. Neither did dirty diapers. Although, I’m not easily grossed out by that kind of stuff.
I am however, terrified to death of anything with more than 4 legs- insects, spiders, even crabs or lobsters (probably because they look similar to spiders and scorpions- I think they are also arachnids). I can eat a lobster tail if it’s just the tail and the shell is cut open, but the thought of having a whole lobster plunked on my plate and having to tear it apart just gives me the willies.
Anyway, I mention that bit to put this story into perspective. My house is for the most part insect-free, but we do have some spiders and centipedes in the basement. As long as I don’t see them, I’m OK. One day, I’m cleaning out the little trap in the kitchen sink drain, and I feel something crunchy between my fingers. Since I had a couple of plants on the windowsill, I just assumed it was a dried leaf that had fallen off. So, imagine my horror when I looked in my hand and discovered I was holding a huge dead centipede.
My second story is one my Mom told me. When she was a kid, my Grandmother would sometimes cook rabbit for dinner. Apparently, she would get them whole form the butcher (or wherever she bought them) and would clean them herself. My mom, being, I guess, 5 or 6 at the time, was fascinated by the rabbit’s furry tail, and asked if she could have it. My Grandma gave it to her, and must have forgotten about it. That is, until a few days later when she went looking for whatever smelled bad and found the tail in my Mom’s dresser drawer.
There’s never going to be a better thread for my puke story, so here goes. My wedding was shortly after St. Patrick’s Day. My boss bought us a keg of beer for the reception. Yep, green beer. One of our guests had the flu. So the day after our wedding a bunch of my friends were puking and pooing green. I personally had to make the “sit or kneel” decision many times before it was over. Memorable.
There was the time we bought our little girl (2? 3?) some yogurt that was based off the character of Shrek. It was bright Shreky green, as was the diarrhea that resulted two hours later.
When I was in college and my husband was away for the summer, a friend of his invited me over to his enormous house party (100+ people). I’m not much of a drinker, but I stood there drinking ‘‘jungle juice’’ and I guess I hadn’t eaten or something, because I got drunk FAST.
I started high-tailing it up the stairs but didn’t make it on time – threw up all over the spiral slatted staircase. I was too drunk to be embarrassed, I just remember sitting in the bathroom thinking I was going to crawl in the bathtub and fall asleep. While I was lying there, some girl came and peed in the sink. I wasn’t even the drunkest person there, it was awful. Friend drove me home and unhappily reports he spent the next morning cleaning my vomit off the first-floor walls.
I hate puke and puke stories, but what happened last year at the Philadelphia Fourth of July celebration takes the cake. My Mom was visiting and the three of us decided to spend the day in Philly. My husband has a thousand food allergies and stupidly ate something he shouldn’t have. He complained he didn’t feel well for the whole fireworks display, and then insisted on driving home even though he was looking green and sickly. I was like, ‘‘you’ve got to be kidding me,’’ but even my Mom was like, ‘‘he knows what’s best for him, just let him drive.’’
So I let my stupid husband drive on the stupid freeway and we were just over the Betsy Ross Bridge when he white-knuckled the steering wheel and said, ‘‘Hand me a bag.’’
‘‘You can’t!’’ I screamed helpfully. ‘‘You’re driving!’’ I grabbed the nearest plastic baggie and sure enough, he started puking into it while driving 70 mph on the freeway. It could have been a lot grosser (and deadlier) than it was. I don’t know how he managed to not crash the car.
I simultaneously felt terrible for him and angry at him for endangering our lives. Meanwhile my Mom was in the back seat, not horrified, but awed and admiring. ‘‘I can’t believe what incredible self-control Sr. Olives has. I’ve never seen someone so calm and collected in my life! He is really just amazingly disciplined. And you – you were so in tune with him! You guys have such a profound and intimate relationship.’’ She was so impressed she called all her friends and told them.
Ooh, another gross story I forgot. When I was a senior in high school I was also working full time and paying my own bills, so I didn’t really have time or money for things like going to the doctor. I came down with a terribly sore throat that weeks later resulted in my being unable to eat because of incredibly painful swelling in my entire mouth. By the time I finally made it to the doctor, my mouth hurt so bad that I could barely speak. I couldn’t open it and he could barely see inside. He guessed that it was some kind of abscess and prescribed me antibiotics, telling me that if that didn’t work I would probably need an operation.
I paid the $87 or whatever for the antibiotics and took those for a few days. Then one night after I exited the restaurant where I worked, I was climbing into my car and something inside my mouth just ruptured. I leaned over and spit out an enormous quantity of white pus all over the parking lot.
And felt better immediately.
Eww. Not a pleasant memory. But thank TPTB for antibiotics!
I had something similar happen back in 2007. I had double pneumonia and severe strep throat all at the same time. The entire back of my throat was one solid pus-sy absess.
When I finally broke down and went to the hospital, I was put on strong antibiotics. I woke up about the 4th or 5th morning on them and felt like I was gona hurl… oh great, I thought, something ELSE now… ran to the bathroom, but I wasn’t sick…my mouth was FULL of pus. :eek: It did it again the next morning, but not nearly as much.
I hope and pray I am never that sick again in my life.
Similar to an earlier poster’s, I also had a cat get into a nest of rabbit’s when I was a kid (about 8 or 10).
We woke up to horrid shrill screeching outside and my mom and I rushed out to find our front porch littered with 5 dead baby bunnies, and our cat holding a six screaming bunny in its mouth. My mom thumped the cat and got it to drop the bunny. The poor critter’s entire lower half of the body had been skinned back, with the loose skin hanging around the bunny’s neck.
Now for the brave bit. My mom took the still living bunny, and reskinned it, pulling down its skin back over its body, and bundled it in a little blanket. The bunny by this time had passed out in shock. She told me she was sorry because the bunny was too hurt to survive, but we could keep it nice and warm and make its last moments happy.
We placed it in a box in the kitchen. I stayed up nearly all night watching the poor unconscious bunny, stroking its ears, and eventually I fell asleep at the table.
I don’t like swallowing semen, so normally when I used to give my boyfriend head, he would let me know when he was about to come so that I could finish him off with my hand. But he really wanted me to swallow, and so I relented.
So there we are, him feeling pretty damn good, me sucking away. He gets that look on his face, I feel the liquid in my mouth … and I spit it out all over his stomach.
“What are you doing??” he exclaims. “You said you were going to swallow.”
“Dude,” I said. “Look at what’s on your stomach.”
“What?” he says.
“It’s yellow. It’s watery and it’s yellow. Dude, you just PEED in my mouth.”
Okay, I’m putting this here so I can excise it from my mind once again.
Often, I’ll say that the smell of burning dog (yeah, laugh all you want) is the second worst thing I had to endure working at an animal hospital (seriously, electric-burnt dog is stomach-churningly nauseating). But I don’t share what the first is.
So here goes.
I hated one particular thing about the hospital: Animals in pain. It was, in fact, dealing with animals that I couldn’t help very well that made me decide vet medicine wasn’t for me.
So, one day we get this bloated cat who’s in just -tremendous- pain. It was my job to hold her for the exam. After having done so, I put the little girl back in her carying basket and went to do other vet-assistant thing.
So, the doc comes up to me a few minutes later and says we need to do an emergency procedure on the cat.
I swear he should’ve warned me what was up.
What -was- up was that the cat wasn’t bloated. She’d been pregnant. And the kittens had died inside her.
And now they were rotting.
I got to assist as the doc used a forceps to remove necrotic bits of newborn kitten from the birth canal of a cat. In chunks.
I swear, the f*ing thing gave me nightmares for weeks, and I still shudder to think on it.
