Puking Isn't Just for St. Paddy's Day

I know that to many people who actually celebrate St. Patrick's Day in earnest, the holiday dedicated to the death of the patron saint of Ireland, Saint Patrick, is a time of family celebration and Irish pride. But sadly, to most of the United States, the holiday has turned into a poor excuse to get completely obliterated and wear monochromatic green outfits.

We Americans just love any reason that justifies getting tanked; hell, we don't even need the holiday, really; it just makes painting shamrocks on your face more socially acceptable.

In my younger days, I celebrated this holiday with the fervor of a girl who desperately needs bead necklaces on Mardi Gras to prove her worth, but now I am happy to eat a boiled potato and watch Leprechaun. Scrolling through my Facebook feed, I found varying levels of emotion about the holiday, from "Let's crack another green Guinness" to "Get off my lawn...with your throw-up." One particularly irate friend called out every person who has ever partaken a few too many as the scum of the earth, especially when their upchucking was involved. It seemed a bit extreme, but I understood her point. No one likes being around really drunken, barfing people.

It got me thinking, however, about debaucherous moments in my own life, holiday-related and not, and how I wished I could apologize to those who got caught in the cross fire, and when I say "cross fire," obviously I'm talking about vomit.

You see, I am what you might describe as someone with a weak stomach, or in layman's terms: a puker. I never mean to do it, and when it happens it's usually not even because I have consumed that much. More often than not, I just haven't eaten enough that day to counteract the alcohol or maybe my internal organs just can't handle it, but regardless of reason, my urge to purge is legend with my close friends and family. (I was known for some time as "Puke-a-saurus Rex.)

In my deep thoughts on the subject -- because I guess I have nothing better to think about --- it occurred to me that I have never tossed my cookies on St. Patrick's Day. There have been many, many other days, and here are a few of my favorites. I would love if you would share yours, assuming you remember them.

There was that time when... I had a very good girlfriend that was a notorious hot head. She just loved throwing back too many and then starting bar fights. This was during a time when I was too poor to purchase food, and so we frequented a bar that gave away free snack mix with its beers. Don't judge; this was that snack mix that came with pretzels AND Cheetos. Despite what you think, eating nothing but snack mix doesn't a dinner make. Three beers later and it was all over. My hot-headed girlfriend found my nausea to be the perfect time to start a fight with the bouncer, who promptly told her off and kicked her out. I stumbled after her into a cab. Like most tough girls, my gal pal was a sheep in wolf's clothing and she promptly started hysterical crying in the taxi. I tried to console her but all I could say was, "blech!" I responded by projectile vomiting all over the cab. The cabbie just loved us.

Then there was that time in college when... I woke up in the science building sleeping on my own pillowcase, which just happened to be filled with everything I ate/drank the night before.

Oh yeah, what about the time at my sister's wedding... It was a day of stress and running around; sufficed it to say, I ate nothing. The chick who was doing my hair insisted that I put it up, which was an odd choice considering I didn't have enough. "We'll fudge it," she said, weaving pieces of fake hair into my own. Hours later, I could finally relax, but a glass or so of wine later, my body shut down on me. Flash forward to the next morning: I woke up in my cheap hotel and continued the previous evening's illness by yakking in the shower, haphazardly pulling the false hair out of my head in wet chunks. Then, when the entire situation couldn't get any more disgusting, I cut my leg shaving. The hotel room looked like a scene out of the most ridiculous B-horror movie of all time, blood and vomit and hair all over the place.

"We are totally getting charged for this," said my husband. We didn't. Score!

This story continues on the next pageIt's not always alcohol related though...

The day after my wedding, my husband and I stayed in a crappy hotel near the airport to make it easier to catch the 6 a.m. flight to our honeymoon in the Dominican Republic. After starving for many months, plus a wedding, I was ready to relax. I ordered some chicken from the one delivery spot pushed by the hotel. Bad move. I spent the next six hours getting rid of what little food was housed in my stomach. It was so bad that we almost called off our honeymoon, but that would have been insane! I toughed it out all the way to the resort we were staying at, wherein I was promptly handed a fruity cocktail by the maître d'. I drank it.

But I can never forget when it all started... My first drink ever was a 40 of Old English. I drank it down and it immediately came back up. You'd think I would have cut my losses right then and there but I guess I am a glutton for punishment.

I wish you all a happy St. Patty's Day, punishment free. If you've got a good puke story of your own, share it with us!

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