Lately I’ve read a few debut novels with very memorable vomiting scenes. So why would I focus on something so, well, gross? I have bad vomit karma. If one of my daughters’ friends has a woozy stomach, I’m pretty much guaranteed that she will hurl on my carpet. Oh, and she will have recently eaten something red or orange. My dog also regularly upchucks under my desk (I try not to take that too personally or symbolically).
So why the bad karma?
Come back with me to junior high (why did everything traumatic happen during those brief years?!?). My mom’s friend had just purchased a brand-spanking new Camaro with plush baby blue seats. She drove over and offered to take us out for ice cream. Yum!
I flopped into the curvy bucket seat, already knowing what flavor I’d order: pink bubble-gum. I quickly snarfed down an oversized single cone (we did not eat in the car). On the brief drive home, my stomach started flipping and flopping. I vomited. Pink ice cream, decorated with bits of dinner, splattered the baby blue interior like a really bad abstract painting. Good-bye new car smell!
The humiliation! The word “sorry” just doesn’t cover pink bubble-gum ice cream chunder on baby blue car interior. I think about this incident every time I’m cleaning up someone else’s vomit. And I always feel worse about that car than I do about my carpet.
If you’d like to read some humiliating (and hopefully fictional) vomit scenes check out: Models Don’t Eat Chocolate Cookies by Erin Dionne (three cones), Lipstick Apology by Jennifer Jabaley (two cones), and Freaked by JT Dutton (five cones). I recommend all the other scenes in these books too!