Tag Archives: throw up

Cellar

Cellar: (n) a room below ground level in a house

I could probably write a large volume of underground stories about cellars. Many things come to my mind.

One particular fascinating and disgusting example happened the Thanksgiving of my senior year in high school.

I had a girlfriend. That in itself was momentous. We had begun our highschool affair and had progressed beyond light petting to flirting with
 some heavy petting, moving quickly towards petting at will.

So I picked her up on Thanksgiving evening and brought her over to my home. We stood around for a few minutes, talking with parents, though my mind was on bringing her down to the cellar, where we could make out on a couch normally reserved for the dog. (I wasn’t terribly concerned about comfort nor fragrance–really just availability.)

We had agreed not to have sex in the same fashion that teenagers promise their parents that they won’t ride the roller coaster at Disney World.

Trying to stay loyal to our promise of no intercourse, for which we would have no recourse, we just kind of laid there on the couch, rubbing up against each other ferociously. (I realize that such movement has a street name, but it sounds so coarse and really doesn’t capture the full energy and excitement of the event.)

Suddenly, in the midst of a back–or perhaps it was a forth–she pushed me away, leaped to her feet, jumped on her hands and knees and threw up all over the cellar floor.

I was surprised.

Apparently, the gyrations had disagreed with the turkey and dressing or angered some cranberry sauce.

But I learned something about myself. First, I would never be able to keep my promise to not have sex. But secondly, I found out that I cared very deeply for this young friend, because I got down on my hands and knees and cleaned up her throw-up.

I didn’t enjoy it. It felt sacrificial. But I did it.

She was embarrassed, impressed and touched. I was relieved it was in the cellar instead of the dining room.

I don’t think anybody ever knew about the event that night, when my girlfriend threw up…because apparently she was sick of me.

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Bronze Medal

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Bronze medal: (n) a medal made of bronze, customarily awarded for third place in a race or competition

It is easy to be cynical if you’ve never done anything. You can make an assumption that you would be great.

But I have a question–what is the value of third place?Dictionary B

Look at it logically:

  • You decide to go to the Olympics.
  • You get funding.
  • You get up every morning at 5:30 and do your workout.
  • You win at some local competitions.
  • You decide you’re ready to go international.
  • You bolster your confidence.
  • You keep a positive attitude.

The day of the race arrives in the foreign land and you’re suddenly standing side by side with some of the greatest athletes in the world. They do not resemble your local competitors.

They are strong, sleek and more confident than you could even have imagined possible.

More importantly, they’re relaxed.

You aren’t.

You’ve just realized you’re out of your league.

Further complicating your situation is that your nerves are scrunching your bowels and nausea has landed in the pit of your stomach. You throw up, depleting your fluids.

It’s time to race.

You are not going to win.

You try to remember how to be positive, but it’s been scared away.

They sound the gun and you’re off.

At this point, you have given up on gold, mocking the concept of silver, and you’re wondering if you can beat the scrawny fellow to your left, to get bronze.

You are suddenly struggling for the worst medal.

And then, on top of all that, your legs fail you and you come in fourth.

So your story from the Olympics is that you almost got a bronze medal.

See?

The power of the bronze medal is that it complements your ability if you’ve already won gold. In other words, “Bobby won two gold medals, a silver and two bronze.”

Then you have those people who will tell you that second place is just the first loser.

So I guess that means that third place–the bronze medal–is the punchline for the first loser.

 

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Beeswax

Beeswax: (n) a person’s concern or business.Dictionary B

“None of your beeswax.”

I’m not so sure anyone under the age of 50 would know what that phrase means. I haven’t heard it for years. It sounds like a throw-away line from the musical, Grease.

But of course, if you are unfamiliar with the phrase, its origin lies in the sarcastic response one gives another person when they’ve stepped over the line and started interfering in one’s life.

In other words, “none of your business.”

You know what the interesting thing is about that idea? More often than not, it may very well be my business. The fact that someone gives me an adolescent, bratty response doesn’t change the fact that they may be making decisions that affect my life without consulting me.

But by the same token, “none of your beeswax” would be a very appropriate response to many things being discussed today as if we actually have some say-so in the conclusion.

1. How somebody worships God.

None of your beeswax.

2. Someone’s sexual orientation.

Not your beeswax.

3. The personal freedoms we are meant to enjoy in this country despite our differences.

Removed from your beeswax.

America may have become more intelligent or technologically savvy, but with the introduction of Facebook and social media, it has also become more intrusive, opinionated and mean.

Some things are none of my beeswax.

I suppose the genesis of the term is that whatever a bee needs to do to make honey is none of my damn business.

Exactly.

I think I’ll just stand on the other end of your life and enjoy your honey. How you get it there is up to you. But understand–we are human.

It better be sweet.

 

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Beer

Beer: (n) an alcoholic drink made from yeast-fermented malt and flavored with hops.Dictionary B

I like good taste.

This does not mean I have good taste. Let me make that distinction before it is thrust upon me.

I am one of those odd people who has never smoked marijuana, taken recreational drugs or chugged beer.

It isn’t a moral issue to me.

It isn’t any kind of sense that I am superior by abstaining.

It’s just that I’m a “watcher.”

Yes, if I had been a cave man, I would have stood back and observed what happened when my buddies ate the berries from a nearby bush, to see if they keeled over and died. I might have had a growling belly while I watched them devour the treats, but then would have been very grateful later as I saw them convulsing on the ground–delighted I delayed.

I never liked what beer does to people, and I certainly found it to be personally distasteful.

Marijuana always seemed to take people to a different place, when I was completely satisfied with the place I had located, renovated and furnished inside me.

People who drank beer also smelled of beer, or threw up a lot. (And by the way, as bad as the brew may be going in, it is even worse coming out.)

I’m always reluctant to discuss this matter because it seems I’m taking a self-righteous profile against Milwaukee’s finest. But honestly, I’ve been to Milwaukee, and the frothing stuff in the brown bottles is not their finest.

So I have come to the same conclusion on the subject with beer that I have with many things I’ve encountered in my life:

  • I’m glad you enjoy it.
  • I’m not preaching against it.
  • But I would rather not participate.

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Alive

Words from Dic(tionary)

dictionary with letter A

 

Alive: (adj.) living; not dead.

One of my favorite stories from the Good Book is the discourse between the angel sitting on the stone that had been rolled away from the tomb of Jesus with the women who had come to make him smell sweeter for burial.

The reason I like it so much is that it’s filled with attitude.The angel pipes off with a bit of verve, “Why do you seek the living among the dead?”

It’s really kind of bratty–especially since these ladies had just seen Jesus die, and were trying to be nice … with spice.

But the angel had insider information. Jesus was alive.

It’s powerful.

It’s so powerful that I am determined to only pursue situations in my time on earth that welcome being alive. How do we know when something is alive?

It’s hungry.

Yes, there is an appetite. A true sign of sickness is that the sight of food makes us throw up. And the evidence of indifference is when we no longer want to eat information to make us stronger.

Things that are alive are thirsty.

They need to replenish fluids because they’re constantly losing them. If they don’t, they dry up and blow away.

I believe being alive involves some manifestation of laughing.

Maybe it’s not always an outward giggle, but it is a sense of good cheer–that nothing is over until it’s over, so why discuss the premature death of anything?

But in like manner, to be alive requires crying.

If we don’t lament loss and acknowledge the absence, we will not have the sensibility to fill the vacuum.

You can tell something is still alive because it’s trying.

I once saw a bird fall from the sky, injured. But even though it was wounded, it continued to move, attempting to gain flight. It lifted from the ground with its one remaining wing, for a few feet successful, and then fell again. But eventually the bird made its way to a place of safety. It kept trying.

I meet individuals who consider themselves intellectual superiors because they have given up on the idea of human beings. I don’t argue with them. It’s ridiculous to debate with the deceased.

And finally, if something is alive, it’s growing.

I’ve been dealing with this in the past month. Just because I’m aging does not mean I can’t keep my muscles toned, my diet correct and my aspirations courageous. When we stop growing, we are bedding down for our death.

Look for things that are alive.

And stop seeking the living among the dead.