Spewin'!!!

There's been some spewin'  in the Bogan household recently.

It all started with Brad the Tradie's now legendary up-chuck onto his workshirt the other day, followed by him hosing off his uniform on the back lawn (yes, we have dogs...but as he rightly pointed out, you can't exactly hose spew off your clothes on the FRONT lawn!) It's like it only takes one vomit and then everyone's spewin'.


Spending time with the voms and runs this week has helped me reflect upon some key spewin' moments I've experienced. The banana-vom-bomb from the little blonde kid in the third row of my 4th Grade class in the country (on a hot day naturally, and yes, she managed to get splash onto my canvas shoes and well as the hair and uniforms of at least half a dozen kids). The bus excursion to Lightning Ridge with the vommy kids up the front chucking into plastic bag-lined ice-cream containers. The baby at that Christening in Geelong who spewed on my new posh dress in the church (Ok, it was polyester and only $69.95 from Katies, but it was NICE!). Brad the Tradie riding the Porcelain Express the night of the open bar work party at the Hyatt, and of course, my infamous chucka-chucka-chucka whilst driving home from the Baan Baa Book Week Parade of 1994.


Actually, sitting in the doctor's waiting room for an hour and a half gave me even MORE time to reflect, not to mention catch up on some germ-collection with the rest of the ill folk of Bogan-ville-ea:


Me (avoiding eye contact with old guy with fungal toe the size of erupting volcano - shall call him Krakatoa): Excuse me, will it be a long wait today for my appointment with Dr D?
Receptionist: Probably.
Me: (avoiding eye roll): Oh, well that's FINE. Even though I'm on time, I'll just sit over there quietly and try not to vomit on the carpet.
Receptionist: U-huh.
I sit down with my Grazia magazine, which, thoughtfully, I intend to leave on the coffee table so that others can be up-to-date with handbag and shoe fashion (not to mention celebrity gossip).
Krakatoa man: ahhhhhhh luvvvvvv, it's a wait today.
Me: Yes. (Try to look super-engaged in Grazia article on Prada bag)
Krakatoa: Me toe luv. It's no good you know. Me cat keeps lickin' the pus off it in me sleep. Won't heal.
Me: Ohhhhh, how... (what? disgusting? gross? wrong?) terrible for you. You know... i might just go to the toilet...tummy bug... excuse me....here, read my magazine, great Prada bag...


What is it about doctor's waiting rooms that just make you feel grotty? Is it the coughing? The old people clearing their throats of phlegm? The screaming babies? The hobbly people holding their x-rays in a large white envelope? The weird chairs with that plastic coating that can be hosed off?


So, after 90 minutes of reading my Grazia, staring at the wall, browsing brochures on everything from Swine Flu vaccination to vasectomies, trips to the loo, avoiding talking to the old dude with the messy toe, texting anyone I could think of and studying the appalling Bogan footwear trends (MUST people wear Masseur sandals to the doctor??) I got to see Dr D. Who didn't care really that I was spewin':


Dr D: OMG! Saw you there and thought I MUST tell you that I sat behind the Education Minister on the plane back from Adelaide the other day. And I thought of you and asked him if he REALLY knows what it's like to be a teacher. He said he didn't really, but he tried to learn more and more each day, so I told him I'd show him for the rest of the trip, right?
Me: Ummmm, feelin' a bit sick... spewin'...on the loo lots... kind of hurts....
Dr D: AND....so I started knocking the back of his chair for like five minutes, and he didn't do anything, so I started doing it REALLY hard and whining and asking him stupid questions, and he turned around and said he thought teachers were amazing people who deserved a LOT of community respect. I don't know whether he got the message, but I tried. For you.
Me: Did you try spitting on him? Treading on his feet? Getting your mum to yell at him? Wiping playdough in his hair?
Dr D: NO!!!! Good tips!
Me: See? There you go. Now, about my spewin'... Get that damn blood pressure machine out and let's go! And no, you're not taking blood. We've been over this. No needles unless there's Valium.


So, sixty bucks and a sick leave certificate later (and "yes, thanks I'll have another useless fridge magnet with the clinic's phone number... ta..."), I'm off home to 'keep up the fluids', which, Brad the Tradie decides, does NOT include Midori. Pffft. Some caring husband HE turned out to be.


I remember training the BHG how to vomit gracefully.
She was about four years old and we'd just moved into our 'new' house and its 'new' carpet. We'd mastered several other pre-school skills, such as skiddy-free arse wiping and sleeping in our own bed, not to mention only having water to drink near the precious carpet. And then... one day... she was spewin'. EVERYWHERE. Up the walls, through her bed, on the windows, even on the FECKING TELE!!! We cleaned it up, tucked her in and decided that as soon as she was well, we'd teach her to vomit properly. And we did. The rules are:
* Make it to the loo, otherwise put a bucket next to the bed. No one ever died of holding spew in their mouth until they made it the dunny.
* At the very least, spew on the kitchen tiles. Avoid all walls, windows and electrical appliances.


It's seemed to work. We called one particular bucket 'just-in-case' as it was a frequent flyer next to her bed. The only other carpet-related incidents have related to red jelly, cat vomit (damn thing refuses to be trained...) and lipgloss. BHG fell asleep with her head in the toilet bowl once. She thought it best to stay there given the frequency of the voms. Brad the Tradie and I thought about waking her up, but instead we laughed and took a photo. It WAS pretty cute.


I think I should write a parenting book.
The BHG (so named for her addiction to the Better Homes & Gardens TV show and magazine) gives all sleepover guests a tour of chateaux Bogane. Invariably when she points out where the loo is, she adds, "Oh, and if you need to spew, you HAVE to make it to the toilet. Or at least the tiles. That's VERY important." And casually moves on to show the guest the Playstation.


We seem to have a family problem with long-haul plane flight spewin' also. Brad the Tradie spent nearly the whole trip back from Hawaii locked in the dunny. At one point there was an announcement over the system calling for a doctor, so I panicked and demanded the wobbly hostess chick let me in to check if he'd died of the violent voms. Apparently the medical call was for a heart attack in Business Class.


The BHG spewed on the QANTAS flight back from L.A. Probably all those cheesy poofs and Disney crap. Unlike Brad the Tradie, who made a MASSIVE man-fuss about spewin on Hawaiian Airlines', the BHG was quite calm. About two hours in, she put down the Nintendo, turned to me and announced that she was going to spew. Knowing the rules, I merely raised an eyebrow and pointed at the loos. She came back all white and vommy. Unfortunately, I'd already taken two sleepers with the nasty packaged dinner (OK, and three red wines.... oh don't look at me like that! It's a LONG HAUL flight ok? In ECONOMY!!!), so I was well and truly on the way out:


Me: Hon, I'm sorry you're feeling crook. I'll ding the bell for a face washer and some ice, yeah?
BHG: yesssssssssssssssssssssss......pleasssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssseeeee.
Me: Just one thing you should know. I'm probably going to pass out soon for about eight hours.
BHG: Where's dad?
Me: Ohh, he went looking for extra leg room. I think he's up the front somewhere. (dinging bell madly...)
QANTAS chick: Yesssss????? Another WINE madam????
Me: Actually, we've got ourselves a bit of a spewin' situation here. We'll need at least three moist, not wet, face washers, a large cup of ice and, in about two hours, some lemonade and crackers.
QANTAS chick: Right, well you ARE allowed to ding the bell more than once. I can come back with lemonade later.
Me: Actually, I've just taken sleeping pills. Don't spose you could just check on her every know and then? She's very well-trained in vomiting. Shouldn't be too much trouble.
BHG: Oh I am really well-trained. I promise I won't spew on the seats or anything.


About two hours from Sydney, I woke up... BHG's head in my lap, facewasher neatly folded on her forehead and not a spot of spew in sight. See? Parenting book!


Now, if only I could train the CAT.. and the husband...