Words, like tiny cherry bombs, can bite us in the ass when we least expect them. I'd been preparing to take my first flight out of Kansas City for a two week vacation from my parents. (Thank the Gods!) I was seventeen at the time, hence, I thought I knew a lot more than my parents. In this case, my father and I butted heads. I won.
We'd recently clashed over whether or not food safety was bullshit. He thought it was, I said otherwise, having been held up to strict regiments of hand washing, sanitization, and having to use almost unreal amounts of bleach on the countertops, appliances and myself when I took my foods class. My father's comments were, "You're family. Unless you've shit on your fingers recently, to Hell with all that. Besides, you can cut meat and veggies on the same board with the same knife!"
He'd not been feeling well, but since I was packing in anticipation of flying, he made dinner. Pork. I don't care for pork to begin with, but I shut up and ate every scrap. It was only then that I noticed something was a little wrong. My stomach wanted to revolt.
A few hours had passed since the meal. I still didn't feel good, but I chalked it up to my new meds. I settled down with the remote to my satellite radio receiver while the computer read something to me, and I kicked back in my chair. Suddenly, an overwhelming pain overcame me. I involuntarily cried and dropped the remote, diving under the desk for the trash can I thankfully kept under it.
My dad, hearing me cough - but thankfully not hearing me puke - came in about to blow a gasket, until he saw how green I was.
"Hold on," he said and left, returning with a prescription nausea drug I'd been given for my headaches. He also brought some ibuprofen, but I have no idea why.
My ass hit that squishy seat like someone had banged me over the head with my own desktop tower; and a mess spewed forth. I wasn’t the only one. The coughing and groans from my parents' room across the hall were a testament that the cause was my father's cooking.
My stepmother gave my father a few new middle names that I didn't know he'd had to begin with, then asked him if he'd washed his hands since he'd been ill with the stomach bug that had been going around. His flippantly remarked, “No, I didn't think I had to.” It was answered by a duel round of "Lemme’ in, lemme’ in!" We fought to find a spot to have explosive, painful liquishit into.
By the way, inserting a massive Promethazine torpedo up one's deep-fried appetizer really, really hurts!
What is the moral of the story? Always, always wash your hands and follow all food safety guidelines. I don't care how silly you think they are!
