Yoga Girl the Vomit Master
Scriiitch...
"Ow."
Scriiiiiiiitch....
"Ow."
Scriiiiiiiiiitch.
"OWWW."
In retrospect, maybe it wasn't as funny as it seemed at the time. Still, at the time, I thought it was fantastic. Four a.m. that morning found the peace of our bedroom disrupted by the quiet yelps of my husband as he attempted to shave--- without soap.
Or water.
In the closet.
With only an old, dark mirror to guide him.
From the bathroom, where he had been peacefully shaving just a few moments before, came the sounds of retching as one of my coworkers deposited VAST quantities of semi-digested alcohol into our toilet.
And from the bed came the quiet sound of my snickering. I couldn't have been happier.
I know that sounds evil, but in order to really understand my predicament, let me bring you back to the night before.
At my work, one of the bartenders is a gorgeous young redhead. I mean GORGEOUS. She's got the long, wavy red hair (the exact color of hair I've always daydreamed of having), and a figure to die for. I mean, really... the girl's a figureskater. And heavily into yoga. She's a yoga figureskater with red hair.
I can compete with many things, but a yoga figureskater with long, indecently beautiful red hair is not one of them.
At any rate, due to a story that's not mine to tell, Yoga-Girl from work needed a place to crash for the night. So I offered her a spot on my luxurious Ikea couch, and hurried to do my sidework and get off work. Some of the other bartenders/waitresses at the bar were feeling sorry for her, so they did what many people in the bar industry do to cheer other people up: They bought her free drinks.
Lots of free drinks. Many, many, hard-liquored shots.
When you take into account that Yoga-Girl weighs all of 115 pounds soaking wet, well... needless to say, by the time I got off of work she ended up being poured into the passenger seat of the car, more than anything else.
I raced for home as smoothly as I could (to avoid giving her whiplash), calling The Bean on the way to ask him to straighten up. By the time we arrived, she was more than ready for sleep, and collapsed on my sofa gratefully.
I finished up a few chores, and was just getting ready for bed, when I realized my mistake.
There, draped like the centerfold from a dirty magazine, on MY couch, was a gorgeous, yoga-master-figure-skating young redhead.
And there I was, fat and jolly on the other couch (the maternal version of St. Nicholas), muffin-top (muffin atomic bomb?) spilling over my extremely tight size 14 jeans as I used my oh-so-sexy breast pump.
What was I thinking, bringing home this gorgeous young treat for my husband to compare me with?
Yoga-Girl was dressed in a halter top and a long, tight, sexy skirt.
I was about to change into my mom's old pajama bottoms she had loaned me until I could lose some of the baby weight and fit back into my own cotton, plaid pj pants.
Yoga-Girl's tousled red hair lay about her in cascading waves, emphasizing the youthful glow of her taut skin.
The baby had spit up on my hair before I put him down for the evening, and I had just rinsed the ends off in the sink before throwing it back in a scrunchy. So I had damp, slightly crunchy spit-up hair.
Yoga-Girl's sexy skirt kept magically traveling up her smooth, toned thighs, despite my embarrassed efforts to pull it down for her. And when I say that it was traveling up, let me assure you: Yoga-Girl's sexy little lacy underwear matched her bra.
SIGH.
The night was unfortunately hot, so no matter how many times I tried to cover up Yoga-Girl, she continually threw off the covers. And again, unfortunately for me, the next morning was the morning that The Bean has his absurdly early math class, which meant he would be traipsing right past Yoga-Girl in her sexy, drunken pose on the couch on his way out the door at 4 am. With my luck, she'd probably have her sexy little skirt up around her ears by the time he left for work.
Disgruntled and drowning in jealousy, I realized that there was nothing I could do, so I went to bed.
At 3:30 am, like usual, The Bean's alarm went off. He took his shower, dressed in his work clothes, and was just about to start shaving when...
In through our bedroom flew Yoga-girl, diving headfirst at our only toilet. The Bean had just enough time to gather his shaving supplies before last-night's alcohol binge began its noisy journey into the toilet.
With a sigh, The Bean went to our only other available mirror to finish his shaving.
Scriiiiiiiitch. "Ow."
"HRAAAAAAAUUUUUGH!!!!!" (vomit sound)
Scriiiiiitch. "Ow."
HRAAAAAAUUGGGGGH!!!!" (splatter)
Thank you, Lord.
"Ow."
Scriiiiiiiitch....
"Ow."
Scriiiiiiiiiitch.
"OWWW."
In retrospect, maybe it wasn't as funny as it seemed at the time. Still, at the time, I thought it was fantastic. Four a.m. that morning found the peace of our bedroom disrupted by the quiet yelps of my husband as he attempted to shave--- without soap.
Or water.
In the closet.
With only an old, dark mirror to guide him.
From the bathroom, where he had been peacefully shaving just a few moments before, came the sounds of retching as one of my coworkers deposited VAST quantities of semi-digested alcohol into our toilet.
And from the bed came the quiet sound of my snickering. I couldn't have been happier.
I know that sounds evil, but in order to really understand my predicament, let me bring you back to the night before.
At my work, one of the bartenders is a gorgeous young redhead. I mean GORGEOUS. She's got the long, wavy red hair (the exact color of hair I've always daydreamed of having), and a figure to die for. I mean, really... the girl's a figureskater. And heavily into yoga. She's a yoga figureskater with red hair.
I can compete with many things, but a yoga figureskater with long, indecently beautiful red hair is not one of them.
At any rate, due to a story that's not mine to tell, Yoga-Girl from work needed a place to crash for the night. So I offered her a spot on my luxurious Ikea couch, and hurried to do my sidework and get off work. Some of the other bartenders/waitresses at the bar were feeling sorry for her, so they did what many people in the bar industry do to cheer other people up: They bought her free drinks.
Lots of free drinks. Many, many, hard-liquored shots.
When you take into account that Yoga-Girl weighs all of 115 pounds soaking wet, well... needless to say, by the time I got off of work she ended up being poured into the passenger seat of the car, more than anything else.
I raced for home as smoothly as I could (to avoid giving her whiplash), calling The Bean on the way to ask him to straighten up. By the time we arrived, she was more than ready for sleep, and collapsed on my sofa gratefully.
I finished up a few chores, and was just getting ready for bed, when I realized my mistake.
There, draped like the centerfold from a dirty magazine, on MY couch, was a gorgeous, yoga-master-figure-skating young redhead.
And there I was, fat and jolly on the other couch (the maternal version of St. Nicholas), muffin-top (muffin atomic bomb?) spilling over my extremely tight size 14 jeans as I used my oh-so-sexy breast pump.
What was I thinking, bringing home this gorgeous young treat for my husband to compare me with?
Yoga-Girl was dressed in a halter top and a long, tight, sexy skirt.
I was about to change into my mom's old pajama bottoms she had loaned me until I could lose some of the baby weight and fit back into my own cotton, plaid pj pants.
Yoga-Girl's tousled red hair lay about her in cascading waves, emphasizing the youthful glow of her taut skin.
The baby had spit up on my hair before I put him down for the evening, and I had just rinsed the ends off in the sink before throwing it back in a scrunchy. So I had damp, slightly crunchy spit-up hair.
Yoga-Girl's sexy skirt kept magically traveling up her smooth, toned thighs, despite my embarrassed efforts to pull it down for her. And when I say that it was traveling up, let me assure you: Yoga-Girl's sexy little lacy underwear matched her bra.
SIGH.
The night was unfortunately hot, so no matter how many times I tried to cover up Yoga-Girl, she continually threw off the covers. And again, unfortunately for me, the next morning was the morning that The Bean has his absurdly early math class, which meant he would be traipsing right past Yoga-Girl in her sexy, drunken pose on the couch on his way out the door at 4 am. With my luck, she'd probably have her sexy little skirt up around her ears by the time he left for work.
Disgruntled and drowning in jealousy, I realized that there was nothing I could do, so I went to bed.
At 3:30 am, like usual, The Bean's alarm went off. He took his shower, dressed in his work clothes, and was just about to start shaving when...
In through our bedroom flew Yoga-girl, diving headfirst at our only toilet. The Bean had just enough time to gather his shaving supplies before last-night's alcohol binge began its noisy journey into the toilet.
With a sigh, The Bean went to our only other available mirror to finish his shaving.
Scriiiiiiiitch. "Ow."
"HRAAAAAAAUUUUUGH!!!!!" (vomit sound)
Scriiiiiitch. "Ow."
HRAAAAAAUUGGGGGH!!!!" (splatter)
Thank you, Lord.
Labels: Funny/Cool Stuff, Stories
posted by Becky at
7:18 AM
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