This reminds me of the time at work.
It was Christmas time you see and traditionally all of the staff would meet in the park near work around 5:00am and have a chicken and champagne breakfast.
Yeah, I know how that sounds, and you can believe me, it is as bad as you think. Greasy fried chicken and champagne (spewmante more likely) for breakfast does not make for a happy stomach.
I do remember running back to the office. (Just for the record I never run, anywhere, anytime for any reason.)
I must have been completely tanked.
I don’t remember getting back to work, but I do remember sitting in one of the offices at work, steadily feeling less and less steady, feeling less and less like I could hold my head up, feeling less and less like my stomach was alright.
The last thing I remember was standing there with my head in the kitchen sink, poking huge chunks of chicken down the plug hole with my fingers lest any additional eruptions from my stomach cause the sink to overflow.
I was put in a cab and sent home but I don’t remember.
I don’t remember this happening, since I was a baby, but when I was six months old my mom brought home an adorable male kitten of about the same age. Not too long thereafter, he started maturing, the way cats do.
My dad liked to sleep with one arm thrown over his head without a shirt on. Imagine the yells when one night, darling Sebastian climbs up onto the bed and SPRAYS HIS ARMPIT.
Egad.
The cat was at the vet the next day to be neutered.
I used to get these ALL the TIME! Too cool that I finally know what they are… I haven’t, of course, had my tonsils out – but I did notice that scraping them out (if I didn’t get it out wholly intact) was the quickest way to get strep. Haven’t gotten any in so long I can’t remember, but as a teen I certainly have - ah - fond memories of the instances of trying to dislodge and choke the tonsil pellets out… ICK!
As for the other TMI/TNI, to keep it nice and vague – let’s just say that every pelvic muscle I own was engaged in a nice ‘peak’ experience, but said muscle contractions caused a tiny, slight, unfortunate, minor (though icky) evacuation. :rolleyes:
I can’t believe I am sharing this story…
A few years ago, hubby & I sat down to eat lunch at home - from our fave mexican takeout place. Nothing unusual, we ate there weekly.
Just as I finished my taco plate, my innerds decide to make some room for the next course. Yep, went in my pants right there with no warning - just a nasty stomach gurgle and a horrified expression on my face. Hubby laughed til he almost puked…
Did I ever tell you guys about how after my c-section they wanted me to evacuate my bowels, but I couldn’t because (a) I hadn’t eaten anything for two days before the surgery and (b) the painkillers stoppered me up?
So it had been two days post-surgery with me having to report, every time they asked, that no, I hadn’t passed gas or moved anything…
And then I had some apple juice.
Let me tell you, that got stuff moving. You should have seen me shuffling into the bathroom, hunched over with my catheter bag in one hand and IV pole in the other, dripping uterus blargh into that wacky diaper-thing they give you, hoping I make it to the toilet so I don’t have to have the nurse clean me up any more than she already has been…
I don’t know why anyone goes into the nursing profession. Honestly I don’t.
Sheesh. So I woke up this morning tired as hell, wanting a shower before work when before me I saw a huge brown stinkin’ puddle of feces smothered over the bottom of the bath tub.
After staring at it for a while my cat wandered in, jumped into the bath, squatted and let out another round of PutridStinkyAssJuice™. Needless to say, I was bewildered, but ended up cleaning up the mess…
Why does my cat choose the BATH of all places to go to the toilet? After keeping an eye on her today I noticed that she pees in there as well.
I’m just glad I didn’t step into the bath before noticing the crap all over the place. THAT would have been bad.
But also funny, in a sick retrospect kind of way…
Our oldest feline, going on fifteen years, now, has developed either a bladder control, or an attitude problem. We haven’t figured which, yet.
It’s so energizing stepping into a slightly warm puddle in the carpet at 4 in the AM or so, in socks. The dances you can do, all the while trying to keep quiet and not wake up your fellow humans, get the blood flowing quite nicely.
So, yesterday morning, she up and soaked down the two “reclining pillows” we keep on the sofa out in the back room. They’re those oversized things with the stubby arms that most folks use when lying in bed watching the boob tube, for reference.
So, out to the curb they go. Just too damn big to try and jam into even an industrial size washing machine, and worn and frayed enough that we didn’t feel like going through the effort of trying to clean the buggers by hand. (She hosed the things down, not just sprinkled 'em.)
A few hours later, I saw two little kids drive by on one of those battery powered cars (yeah, really) and snatch them up for, presumably, a tree-house or backyard fort, or whatever.
Just as I’m ready to open the window and warn them of what they’re getting into, one grabs the bottom of a pillow, draws back his wet hands, gets a whiff, and shrieks, fleeing the scene.
They came back a bit later, with a third friend, who they made pick up the pee-pee pillows, and load 'em into the back of the little toy car. Said friend rode away with them perched on top of the two soiled cushions, at about 2 MPH.
I hope they’re at least using them outside, and not in someone’s living room.
Ah. Now me, I live in Helsinki, where city ordinance dictates that dog owners must pick up their doggies’ doo-doos. A good thing, not only because it means one less thing to worry about stepping in when walking through grass in summer, but also because it means that one usually has a small plastic baggie somewhere on one’s person; said baggie can succesfully be used on occasions like these.
Such as about three years ago, in the summer, when my then-6-month-old dog had, during a period of time spanning one week, anally given birth to a sock (formerly blue, now a shade of approximately green), two Lego men, and the remains of a ping pong ball (which was interesting, because to my knowledge, no-one in our family plays ping pong). Walkie time had become an exercise in gut and mind control. Luckily for me (as you will soon see), it had also become a time of carrying two little plastic baggies instead of one.
So I’m walking along the path with Bea in tow, when she suddenly starts urgently weaving back and forth in the grass. This denotes that the squat is about to commence, and I started watching her closely to see where I would have to pick up afterwards. So she gets to squatting. And she squats. And she squats. And she starts whimpering and squats some more. “Crap”, I think, “she’s got something stuck there. I hope she can pop it out.”
No such luck. Five minutes of squatting, straining, whimpering, occasional pausing and walking around agitatedly, and more squatting ensue. Finally, I decide that I had better see what’s wrong. I step off the road into the grass, walk over to the dog, grab her by the collar and turn her so her hindquarters are towards me. And then I see it.
It’s yellowy and plasticky. A sort of mesh pattern. It’s partly protruding from Bea’s anus. And suddenly it hits me.
Believe me, nothing beats the feeling of absurdity you get when the phrase “My dog has swallowed a shuttlecock” is replaced in your head with “My dog has swallowed a shuttlecock and it is now lodged backwards in her ass”.
By this time, my poor dog is nearly breaking glass with the pitch of her whimpers. I realize with a sinking heart that something needs to be done, it’s going to be icky, and there’s no-one else around but me. “Okay, this is going to take two hands,” I think, pulling on a plastic baggie like a surgical glove. I grab Bea with one hand, and then…
Well, let’s just say that I got it out in the end, after much squeezing of plastic mesh parts and wiggling of fingers, and I think it was around this time that thoughts of becoming an obstetrician or a proctologist were permanently banished from my mind.
Being the good dog-owner that I am, I took Bea to the vet the next day. She escaped the whole ordeal with “some slight bruising around the anal area”. I have never seen our vet laugh as hard as when I related the incident to her.
auRa, well written! bravo
and I’m soooo relieved to find that my cousin and I aren’t the only ones to suffer from throat nuggets. All this time it was our dirty lil secret. Come to think, her curiousity about THIS matter was her reason for entering medical school!
auRa, I hope a see a lot more from you on the boards. You’re a great storyteller!
For the record, I want to tell people that I did make it to the bathroom in the hospital.
I was figuring you’d kind of exploded right there in the hallway, and they had to completely redecorate around the HazMat Site that was Cranky.
But, we love ya anyway. 
Just FYI…One of my cats has some kidney problems, which we have averted with a diet change. We would know that he was having problems when he started peeing blood. And the reason we knew he was peeing blood was that he did it in the bathtub.
The theory is that cats may start to associate pain (during urination) with the litter box and refuse to use it. And, they can numb their nether parts by pressing them against the cold surface of the tub.
If this is a new behavior, it might be worth a trip to the vet for a check up. In our case, simply switching from dry to wet food has kept our cat symptom free for over a year.
Oh, I might as well share a bit of my own TMI.
When I went into labor with my first child, I followed my natural childbirth teacher’s advice and had a light meal to sustain me through the coming hours. Unfortunately, she did not know to warn us away from acidic foods, as they can cause stomach distress. As it happened, my light meal of choice was a slice of toast and a glass of orange juice.
A few hours later I became quite nauseated. I spent some time vomiting. As time passed (and I progressed to dry heaves) my PC muscle tired and I found myself, at the peak of every contraction, simultaneously heaving and peeing myself.
I’ve learned from my mistakes, though, and always warn my students of the possible effects of acidic foods during labor.
::abruptly screams with laughter and frightens her dog::
What a great thread.
I’ll chime in with one of my less gross TMI stories, but I think it’ll still qualify.
After a grand afternoon of drinking, followed by and evening and night drinking, I had decided that I should try and sober up a little bit before trying to get my butt home.
So some friends and I hit this all night cafe, and in my infinite alcohol-induced wisdome, I decided that chicken natchos would help settle my stomache. A huge plate of them. With salsa.
Well, the bus ride home was pretty rocky, but I made it into my appartment okay. I was feeling a little better even, and decided I needed to drink some water or juice before I went to sleep or face a killer hangover in the morning. All I had was some blue Gatorade.
Well, shortly there after, their slogan “Is it in you?” was easily anwered with a: No!
I blew blue, thick, oatmeal like chunks into the bathroom sink. It was like vomiting concrete. Truely one of the most horrific feelings I’ve had. Second maybe to trying to clean it up. It actually behaved a little like blue concrete, and kept trying to solidify in the pipes. It took me an hour and a lot of gagging to clean that mess up.
Why in the bathroom sink?
Urgh. I’ve got nothing to add to this thread that can beat any of the other posts…
Oh boy. I’m never gonna be able to show my face at a Dopefest after this.
Before I discoverd the joys of BC pills, my periods used to be heavy and excruciating, causing both vomiting and diahrrea on that first day. One day at work, I feel the familiar cramping and scamper off to the bathroom. I puked into the toilet, and quickly spun around so I could unload my bowels (and period) into it. A cramp grips me, and I faint, falling forward off the pot and onto the floor. After a few minutes, a concerned coworker comes looking for me. Finds me with my pants down, passed out in a puddle of menstrual blood, the toilet a delicious stew of blood, diahrrea, and vomit. What a way to be awakened.
My cat had tapeworms, and puked a big stinking mass of mouse guts, cat food, and wriggling tape worms onto the bathroom floor, which I discovered upon stepping naked out of the shower and slipping in it. I fell butt-first into the puddle of sick, and was terrified that the tapeworms had managed to crawl into my ass. They hadn’t.
Several of these responses lend credence to my theory that pets don’t belong in the house. Keep them outside where they can shit, puke, and piss to their hearts content (of course, I realize this is not going to work if you live in the city. I happen to live in the country).
My own story to add:
My first job was as a busboy in a seafood restaurant. During a Christmas party, at the ripe old age of 14, I drank way too much red wine and ended up puking into one of those big, gray 55 gallon plastic trash cans. This same trash can contained table scraps from the dinners that night plus old crab meat, fish parts, just all manner of seafood restaurant gunk. As I continued to heave into the can I leaned every more forcefully into the abyss until I ended up tipping the entire thing over on me and passing out.
To this day (more than 20 years later) there’s a picture of the trashcan, in the parking lot, with the lower half of my torso sticking out of it, posted in the kitchen. High schoolers who are currently working there are amazed when I go back to visit and they get to meet “the kid that slept in the trash.”
…and the next nominee for Pet Owner of the Year…
I had a cat that was terminally afflicted with health problems. One evening, it was putting up an agonized mewling that finally got me out of bed. I turned on the lights at the exact instant in time to find poor Bill squatting in his box with his bowels explosively bursting in the most surreal bout of diarreah I have ever witnessed. You’ve seen that bit in Monty Python’s Meaning of Life when Mr Creosote projectile spews? Well, my cat exploded out his back end with such force I was afraid he’d rocket-sled his litter box across the linoleum. The backsplash against the corner of the box, in some twisted display of conservation of momentum, re-funnelled his exhaust right back up into his underside, and then out in a fan-spray pattern leaving intricate carnation-petal patterns all over the bathroom floor. This was all a fairly instantaneous explosion.
Bill then turned his eyes up to me in the most satisfied cat-smile you could imagine, with gooey brownish stuff dripping from his belly, neck, and whiskers.
“You ok Bill?” I asked.
“Purrrrmmmmmrrroowwrr” he replied, which I interpreted as “Yes, thanks, I could have really used some Pepto an hour ago, but it’s all right now. Oh, I’ve left a similar mess in the kitchen. Could I have a bath now?”
I smiled, strapped on the rubber gloves, and got down to business.
A few months ago I went to the bathroom, and had mild diarrhea of the sort that I always get around my period. Or so I thought, until I went to wipe, and what I had produced was this BEAUTIFUL shade of blue-green!
I was seriously freaked out. It happened again a couple of times over the next couple of days, then it was gone.
I still have NO idea what would turn it that color.