Did you ever play that game called Telephone?  Where one person whispers something and it’s passed down the line until the last person has to say the now-mangled message out loud?  Then everyone laughs HA HA HA at how far the message had strayed from the original.

Well this blog isn’t about that game, so I’m not sure why you’re even talking about that game in the first place.

This blog is about how I can’t tell my kids apart on the telephone.  Every phone call with my kids goes something like this:

Ring, ring.  Ring, ring.

An 11 or 12 year old boy or girl answers the phone: Hello?

Me: Hi…….there.  How are you?

S/he: Good.

Me:  Oh, that’s good.  Are you doing your homework?

S/he: Yep.

Me:  Ohhhhkay.  Is your…….sibling doing….their homework?

S/he: Uh-huh. You wanna talk to my….sibling?

Me:  Yes, yes I do.

-The…..child pulls the phone away from……their ear and goes to hunt down……the other child.  At which point I can hear the following conversation:

Thing 1: It’s Mom.  She wants to talk to my….sibling.  Which means she doesn’t know who we are again.  Don’t tell her, ok?

Thing 2:  Ok.

-Whereupon Thing 2 grabs the phone and says,

S/he: Hi, Mom.

Me:  Hi……You.  Did I ever tell you how much you sound like your….sibling on the phone?

S/he: Yeah, I know. You’ve said that before.

Me:  Well, did I also ever tell you I put a camera above where you’re standing and I’m looking at the monitor right now and I can see it’s YOU!

S/he: Mom.  Stop.

BAM!  It’s Sissy!!  Sonny would’ve said, “Come on, Mom.”

See?  I AM a good mother.  I’m not sure why you’re even talking about me not being a good mother in the first place.  You need to stop talking about stuff no one wants to talk about.

Originally this blog was going to be about how, oddly enough, I look forward to my annual mammogram.  Well, “look forward to” is a strong phrase.  Maybe it’s more along the lines of “I don’t dread it that much” and that’s really only because the check-in gals and I do this comedy routine about my kids.  Their paperwork has me down for twenty-one kids; I really only have the two…which FEELS like twenty-one kids sometimes.  Ba-dum-bump.  Then we all harharharharrarrararar and they promise to change the paperwork for next year.  But next year comes and I’m right back to having twenty-one kids again.  Old Woman in the Shoe much?  Harharharharrarrararar!  See?  Nothing to dread there; I love me some shtick.

But this year, it struck me how many women do fear this appointment.  Perhaps this annual visit will change them forever.  Perhaps they’ll receive a verdict they never expected and a sentence to do hard time will be passed into their lives.  This year, in the calm and quiet of the mammography waiting room, I spent my time thinking of my college roommate, Sidney*.  She has breast cancer.

And every time I think of Sidney, I always think of one particular story.  I’m not sure why I think of this story – perhaps it’s because this is how I picture us in my mind: frozen in time, young and carefree, no responsibilities, really, and certainly no breast cancer.  We’re in our early 20’s with amazing hair, riding around in futuristic car, on the run from a religious sect.

Let me ‘splain…

It was the late 80’s (thus the “amazing hair” part of the story because, really, what’s NOT amazing about perms-on-top-of-already-curly-hair?!) and Sidney and I were driving home from college in my mom’s burnt-sienna colored Chrysler LeBaron with a bizarre sparkly finish.  It had a digital display dashboard and robotic female voice that yammered on about nonsensical stuff like the whereabouts of your key and the status of your door.  Hey Fembot, when is your door not a door?  When…your…door…is…a…jar.  It also had a turbo blaster engine and the merest press of your foot on the gas pedal would G-force you back into your seat while making the white pinpricks of light elongate into lines as you achieved hyper drive.

So there we are: Central Pennsylvania, deserted rural road, 40 MPH speed limit, car-from-the-future.  Perfect opportunity to test out how fast things REALLY could go.  Brilliant idea proposed by me.  Brilliant idea agreed to by Sidney.  I would shout out how fast we were warp-speeding and she would keep an eye out for unsuspecting rural items to avoid.

(Hi, Mom and Dad.  Did I ever tell you this story?!  No??  Huh.  Well, if not, maybe you shouldn’t read any further then.)

So I stomped on the gas pedal and the car leapt forward.  I commenced shouting out the speed, “…Forty-five…Fifty…Fifty-five…,” As we headed into a curve in the road, I yelled out “SIXTY!!!” Sidney simultaneously yelled, “COPS!!!!!”

^*%$#@!@#$%^&*&**&^%$#@@!!! I slammed on the brakes and we were thrown forward in our seats (please…fasten…your…seatbelts).  My heart was in my throat and I veered in behind the cop car almost crashing in to the back bumper but figuring that they can’t catch me speeding if I don’t actually PASS them while speeding.

Whose STUPID idea was this?!?  Guhguhguhhhh!  I’m gonna get in BIG trouble if I get a speeding ticket in my MOM’S CAR.  CapcrapcrapcrapCRAPPPP!!!  Just act casual.  JUST ACT CASUAL!  Nothing to see here OFFICER!!!  Sidney and I are shouting all sorts of nonsense at each other while trying to act like we always come blasting up the road, slam on the breaks then duck hard right behind a cop car.  Yep, always doin’ that.  No big thang.  Guhguhguhhhh! 

But while all this drama is playing out in OUR car, the cops haven’t made a single move yet.  No one’s reaching for the lights and sirens.  They’re just toodling along acting like they didn’t even SEE us.  Like they don’t even CARE.  Like they’re not even COPS.

Wanting, needing to figure out what’s going on, I’m casually-while-trying-not-to-chum-in-my-mouth peering into the big, boxy, coplike car when I notice that there’s no chrome anywhere on it.  All the shiny bits are painted over in flat black.  Hmmm, puzzling.  There’s a guy with a broad brimmed sheriff’s type hat sitting in the front seat wearing dark clothes.  There’s also a guy in the front passenger’s seat wearing all the same stuff, hat included.  In the back seat is a woman with her hair in a bun covered by a WHITE MESH BONNET!

THOSE AREN’T COPS…THOSE ARE MENNONITES!!!! 

Ohhhhh, so young and so fun.  And while we’re still fun, we’re older now and no one’s hair is as big as it once was.  We’ve faced things the car-from-the-future never told us we’d face.  Sidney, I’m sorry for your diagnosis, your pain and this current road you and your family are traveling.  Please know I’m thinking about you and you’re in my prayers daily.  I’m sending every funny memory your way because laughter has its place in healing and recovery.

And please, please, please continue to keep an eye out for Mennonites.  As I mentioned earlier, we’re older now and we can’t let them sneak up on us like they used to.

*For those of you who are worried I’m violating HIPAA regulations, I’m not.  Sidney isn’t her real name.  I’m only calling her Sidney because that was her fake name in college.  Everyone has a fake name in college, right?  Firmly established via roundtable discussion at that restaurant during Spring Break Junior year in the Bahamas??  While you were consuming enough rum drinks and calamari to put you off rum drinks (and calamari) for the rest of your life?!?  No??  Just me on this one?  Perhaps.  Because I happen to know Sidney is still partial to rum and Coke.  Not sure about calamari though.

I got a nifty new hand sanitizer giveaway thingy the other day.  And since Sissy loves hand sanitizer almost as much as I do, I let her do the honors of being the first to use it.

She went to town!  Acted like she was scrubbing in for surgery or something – rubbed big liquid-y handfuls of sanitizer all over both hands and up her forearms.  We’re sitting in the front seat of the car at this point, she with her arms bent at the elbows and her hands raised in the air in reverse surrender, me driving, when a really terrible smell hits us both.

Sissy looks over at me, her Littlest Petshop eyes huge in her face and says, “Mom?  MOM?!?  Is this a JOKE???”

The smell of someone’s unwashed backside was shimmering like a heat mirage off her hands.

“Oh, BOY, Babe!   I think the hand sanitizer must be skunked.  I’m pretty sure hand sanitizer shouldn’t smell like dirty bee-hind.”

The rest of the car ride was filled with no talking; only retching noises, and when we got home Sissy bolted to the sink and washed her hands-up-to-the-elbows.  Repeatedly.  (And no, we didn’t pitch the hand sanitizer.  Because that’s gonna be a funny joke on some unsuspecting dirty-handed boy we know.  After we send him off to a field by himself to clean up.  Ha ha ha.)

But you know what all of that reminded me of?!  The time I bought a pair of gloves in Paris.

Huh?!  How so?  Glad you asked.  Let me explain.

I was a young and lovely Jersey-haired ingénue in Paris.  It was November and I was setting out for a hiking holiday in Switzerland.  This naturally meant that I needed to purchase a last minute pair of gorgeous pink gloves from a street vendor.  I then proceeded to wear them through the miles and miles of the Paris Metro while touching various subway handrails, escalators, seat backs before finally getting to the train station where I met my friends and we boarded a train bound for Geneva.  It was right about the time we were settling into our compartment that I lifted my backpack up to its resting place above my head and discovered as my gloves were moving past my nose that they smelled…bad.  Really.  Really.  Bad.  Like butt if we’re being honest.  Either I had inadvertently PURCHASED butt gloves from the street vendor, or I had inadvertently made them INTO butt gloves by touching every filthy surface on the Paris metro.

Acck!  Knowing I had to wear these stank thangs the whole trip, I tried everything I could to get them smelling better, starting with peeling an orange on the train while wearing the gloves.  And?  Nothin’ doin’.  Still smelled like butt with an overlay of orange scent.

When we got to the hostel run by nuns where we stayed the first night, I washed the gloves out in the shared bathroom sink.  A little known fact here is that butt gloves, much like dogs, smell WORSE when wet.  And all hope of a light orange scent flees from the vengeful glove gods.

This went on the whole trip.  I washed those gloves at night in every sink I came to, scrubbed them with dry soap leaves, sprayed them with perfume in a department store, held a fir tree for fifteen minutes (that just got weird glops of sap on them and they STILL smelled) and rubbed deodorant on my hands before inserting them into the gloves.  Nothin’ doin’.  Butt per usual.  AND because they were rode hard and put up wet every night, they faded to a weird flesh color.  At which point I was giving the impression I had thickset putrid hands so I just had to throw the gloves away.

That’s it.  Just wanted to tell you how smelly hands accidentally run in the family.  No ifs, ands, or butts heh, heh, heh about it.

Ok.  Maybe not the theory of EVERYTHING…just the theory of Peeps.  MY theory of Peeps.  But ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!  Made ya look, made ya look, stole your mother’s pocketbook.  Kicked it in, kicked it out, kicked it in the sauerkraut!

Just like sauerkraut, Peeps are very polarizing.  There’s no middle ground.  Ask anyone their opinion about sauerkraut and they’ll either act like we’re discussing their most precious, warmest, fuzziest thumb-suckin’ blankie thingie from toddlerhood or they’ll visibly recoil like you’ve just presented them with a severed head.  Ask anyone and you’ll get either a “love it” or “hate it” response.

Peeps.  You know, Peeps.  Those little florescent-colored marshmallow chicks that you see at Easter.*  Just like sauerkraut, people fall into two camps here – the ones who love ‘em and the ones who hate ‘em.  Except in the case of Peeps, people who say they love ‘em are LIARS!!!

They LIE!!!  They LIE like a ROOMFUL OF RUGS!

Because NO ONE can like Peeps.

They taste like nothing and have the texture of beach sand.  What would be the point of something like that?!?

And I don’t care that there are Peeps RECIPES and NEW FLAVORS and more SHAPES and an entire raging debate about “stale vs. fresh,” it’s just a smokescreen to cover up the fact that everyone hates Peeps.

Hates ‘em.  Just like severed heads.  Oh I LOVE severed heads.  See?  No.  No one says that.  EVER.

And if you write in and say you do actually love Peeps, or that you’re going to report me to the Peeps peeps, then we’ll all know that’s code for how much you hate Peeps.  And it’s further code for how the Peeps peeps should be arrested and made to play in a sandbox when they’re hungry so they can see what it tastes like.

Now, please, not another PEEP out of you.

*Happy Easter by the way.  You know what I especially love about Easter?!  Unlike Christmas, where Santa’s arrival is super chancy due to the whole flawed human interpretation of “good” and “bad,” Jesus always comes again at Easter.  Always.  Yep, love that.  But you know what I DON’T love??  Peeps.

When my daughter was little, she was overly intrigued with computers.  But since she spoke like a Russian Émigré from the ages of one through three, the word came out as, “pew-ter,” like she was visiting Paul Revere’s smithyworks from the Motherland for the first time and was in awe of all his artsy platters and such.

“Pewter.”

Clearly this girl knows a little sumthin’ sumthin’ ‘bout computers and that early fascination hasn’t gone away; She remains interested in technology – lately, the role of technology in my life when I was her age.  “What was YOUR technology class like when you were my age, Mom?”

Uhhh…my technology class was reading through the instruction book to figure out how to play tic-tac-toe on Merlin, the Electronic Wizard, when I was your age, Sweetie.

Technology, in the form of computers, didn’t come into my life on a regular basis until the late 80’s and I was at the tail end of my college career.

You know what’s funny about that?  I just received a mailing about my college reunion…and guess what was on the front of the mailing?  A picture of my college computer class circa 1989!  The students are all wearing their gigantor tortoise-shell glasses which take up the majority of their faces.  Not to be outdone in size, the computers are the approximate dimensions of a dog house and are perched on wooden planks laid over sawhorses.  Ha, ha, kidding about the sawhorse set-up, they’re on banquet tables clearly pulled from the student dining hall.

Anyway, what’s particularly enjoyable about the picture is that there are THREE students for every ONE computer, like computers were so precious you couldn’t have just ONE student per computer or anything.  And the computers themselves were those yellowing-from-the-heat-or-too-many-students-clustered-around-breathing-on-them DOS Prompt thingamajigs.  The whole thing was precious!

So I turned it over to ‘Pewter Princess for a look-see.  Her response?  “Yikes.”

Uh-huh.  Yikes indeed, My Dear.  Yikes, indeed.

P.S. I had a college roommate who was a Computer Science major.  Beep boop.  Every time I say “Computer Science” beep boop I have to say beep boop because the name alone makes me think of automatons and/or Joshua from War Games.  Would you like to play a game, Professor?   Anyway, for her work-release program, this roommate had to assist students in the Computer Science Lab beep boop which I recall being housed in the windowless basement of the Business Management building.  And?  It may have been work-study, not work-release.  And??  There may have been windows, they were just painted black and the students would scratch “send help” messages on the windows with their fingernails.  See?  It’s more fun to make it sound like Computer Science beep boop was the gritty underbelly of a liberal arts education in the late 80’s.  Anywho…at the end of summer break our Junior year, this Computer Science major beep boop returned to school telling us all about how these supercomputers beep boop were being connected across the United States which would allow people to “talk” to other people.  Through the computer!  Beep boop.  In fact, they were also being connected with other countries and she had even “met” a guy in Canada or parts-north that way.  Another friend and I, hearing this crazy talk, laughed ourselves silly.  Computers that are somehow connected?  And allow people to “talk” to eachother no matter where they are?!?  HAAHAHAHHAAHAHAHAHA!  What a stupid idea.  That will never catch on.

My daughter has been challenging me to rap battles lately. Is this what all lovely young ladies her age are doing with their mothers?!  Because – and I say this with nothing but the greatest of maternal affection – she’s really, really bad at rap. Her raps usually last for one line and then just turn into rhyming noises, not even actual words.

But I?  Being a time traveler from the 1980’s, I have a serious stockpile of the three rap songs to come out of the decade. And as a result, I’m able to beat her in battle.  Every.  Time.  And yes, yes, I’m counting.

Example A:

Sissy throws it down with, “The car goes rahr…duh, duh, duh, duh, dahr!”

And since it’s on like donkey kong about the car theme, I naturally reply with, “You get in your car and you drive real far and you drive all night and then you see a light and it comes right down and lands on the ground. And out comes a man from Mars. And you try to run but he’s got a gun. And he shoots you dead and he eats your head…”[1]

At which point Sissy says, “Stop, Mom. No. That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard,” like I didn’t just winner winner chicken dinner all over her with the Man from Mars biz.

Example B:

We’re going somewhere & the car radio’s playing. Sissy looks over at me and starts in with, “I don’t like this song on the rad-i-OH!  It’s badie, daddy, dad-i-OH!  Wucka wucka wucka.”

To which I say, “A hip hop, hippie to the hippie. The hip, hip a hop, and you don’t stop, a rock it. To the bang bang boogie, say, up jump the boogie. To the rhythm of the boogie, the beat!”[2]

Sissy, open-mouthed (I say in awe, she would probably say it was total disgust) says, “No, absolutely not. That’s totally dumb.” Look who’s talkin’…

Example C: 

This past week-end I walk into the family room and Sissy starts in with something awful along the lines of, “The light above your head means that you’ll soon have to go to bed, vuffee, vuffee, vuff!”

To which I reply, “Superman looked up at me; he said you rock so naturally. Jam on it. Jam on it. Ja, ja, jaja, jam on it!”[3]

This particular mother/daughter Rap Throw Down is Hubby’s first witness to the magic. So for a second he sits there stunned.  Then he says, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You can’t battle unless it’s your own original stuff!”

Huh?!?  Who knew?!  Who knew there were even RULES for Rap Battles?!?  Not me.

And just like that, Rap Battles in our house?? Done.  Because Home Girl ain’t gonna play if Home Girl can’t win with her professionally written 80’s raps.

Wucka, wucka, wucka.  Vuffee, vuffee, vuff!

[1] “Rapture” by Blondie released January 1981.

[2] Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight” peaked at 36 on Billboard 100 in January 1980.

[3] “Jam on it” by Newcleus released on 1984.

My husband is obsessed with two t.v. shows lately, both about Alaska:

1. Bering Sea Gold – or as I say, “I’m not buying any more gold jewelry now that I know where it comes from. Because that? Is RIDONKULOUS!” There’s endless equipment malfunctions and in-fighting amongst the team.  And if I can’t stop buying gold jewelry, I will begin paying extra for the non-conflict gold from other countries. An alternative title for this show could have been: Ice Road Truckers Go All Miner Forty-Niner on Your Assets.

and

1. Alaskan Bush People – or as I call it, “Completely incompetent people who should not be living in the Alaskan wilderness yet are and will most likely pay the ultimate price for it.” The show is about this family – 2 parents, 2 younger tweenish daughters and like 4 or 5 or 12 sons who don’t hold still and look different every time you see them so it’s hard to get an actual count. They all have this Nell, “Taaaay in the weeyund” accent developed from their viewing of Jodi Foster movies on old VHS machines jerry-rigged to run via gas-powered generators. And they are endlessly underplanning for important things like building a dwelling and acquiring food before winter comes. In addition, someone gets a toothache at least once an episode and has to go by boat, olde timey wood paneled station wagon and dirt road (not necessarily in that order) to get to the only dentist in Alaska. When the toothaches happen, the 4 or 5 or 12 brothers stay behind so that they can begin catching plenty of fresh salmon for the tooth-pulling-in-exchange-for-fresh-salmon barter that will ensue. I admire the family’s big dream and all. But their execution is the pits.

This morning, Sonny & I were driving a million miles away to attend Sissy’s softball tournament.

[as you know, this is the rule of softball tournaments: they must always be a million miles away so that you can prove your commitment to the sport by going to far off lands]

Halfway there, we spotted two hot air balloons rising into the gorgeous spring morning.

Sonny turned to me and asked if I’d ever be able to do something like go up in a hot air balloon since I’m afraid of heights.

“Hmmmm…I’m not sure,” I replied, not convinced that it would be the same as standing at the top of an icy mountain with no other way down than by engaging my fear-juice squirting mechanism.

So I explained that I wasn’t sure, but maybe; maybe I’d be able to go up in a hot air balloon. It would certainly be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

I looked at Sonny, trying to gain consensus on the “once-in-a-lifetime experience” thing whereupon he shrugs and says matter-of-factly, “Well…unless you OWNED a balloon.”

[as you know, this is the rule of sons: they must always provide you with perspective on the fact that even though you think you know lots…you don’t know EVERYTHING.]

So yes. Yes, good point, Sonny. A balloon ride would be thrilling and only happen once in your life unless you OWNED a balloon & could go up in it every day. Whereupon it would be matter of meh – just another ho hum ride in my balloon. Snoozeville. Remind me again why I wanted to buy this balloon in the first place?!? So tedious…

What better way to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day than by making a prank phone call?!  Using my remote camera capabilities, I can see that you all agree.  So let’s shout out all our fun perhaps accidental St. Patrick’s Day prank phone call stories.

I’ll go first.

But just a sec!  Before we get there, by way of explanation, I need to tell you that today is my mother’s birthday.  Happy Birthday, Mom – we love you!!!  And when we were kids, we gave her all of the Birthday-on-St-Patrick’s-Day-green-beer-for-breakfast-in-bed one woman should ever be subjected to.  [Did I say beer?!  Beer would’ve been weird.  I actually meant pancakes.  And I believe at one point there were even green eggs.  Mom, please verify the eggs.]

So now that the green pancake (and possibly green eggs; still waiting for verification) portion of the event is over – forever – my siblings and I have moved on to plain ol’ birthday phone calls.

One March 17^th a few years back, my kids and I called my mom early in the morning to wish her a happy birthday.  I was also trying to hustle everyone out the door for school and work, so in my rush, I may have mis-dialed my parents’ phone number in Virginia.  I thought an Asian woman answered, but when I said, “Mom?” she said, “Yes,” so we launched in to a hearty cha-cha-cha version of Happy Birthday.

Halfway through, there remained a niggling doubt about whether or not we were actually singing to my mother, so I called a halt to the whole thing and said again into the phone, “Wait…MOM??”

To which the person on the other end – who may have been A mom and was therefore required to listen patiently and without interruption to our singing, but perhaps wasn’t MY mom with a birthday on St. Patrick’s Day, replied politely, “I sorry.  You have wrong number.”

But then, when she said it like that, it almost sounded IRISH!  Ha, ha, ha.  This, naturally, led me to believe that my sister and her daughters were visiting my parents and my sister’s younger daughter had picked up the phone and was goofing around with us before putting my mother on the line.  [And yes, I find it best to come up with the most cockamamie idea of what could possibly be happening and then proceed as if it actually IS happening.]  So, now, convinced that my niece had indeed picked up the phone and was using a fake Irish-bordering-on-Asian accent to screen my mother’s birthday phone calls, I said to the voice on the other end, “Ohhhhh…riiiiight…is this crazy IRISH Niece?!?”

To which the voice replied again (politely, yet a bit more adamantly), “I sorry.  You.  Have.  Wrong.  Number.”

Hmmmm…despite my theory, we must really have the wrong number and just unloaded a HUGE blast of wackiness on this poor woman.

So I hastily apologized and hung up.  Sissy voiced the concern that perhaps the woman would call the cops on us.  To which I replied, “Yes, she might.  In fact, she probably should.  But she’s in Virginia and we’re in Colorado, so she probably won’t.”  The cops never did show.

Then we called my real mother and sang a real happy birthday to her.  Turns out my sister and the nieces weren’t visiting at all.  What a dumb idea; who thought of that idea, anyway?

But in keeping with today’s theme, next I’d like to hear from anyone who has ever RECEIVED a bizarre singing prank phone call on St. Patrick’s Day.  Anyone?  Anyone??

Not sure why YOU’RE thinking of the Throw Up Slip-n-Slide.  But I’M thinking of the Throw Up Slip-n-Slide because Spring Break just started here and EVERYONE knows that the Throw Up Slip-n-Slide is practically de rigueur if you’re on Spring Break.  In Mexico.  When you’re eight.

Huh?

Let me explain…

Spring Break three years ago when I had a job, Hubby, the kids and I took a trip to an all-inclusive resort in Mexico.  Our suite was gorgeous; all white leather couches and white marble floors gleaming from one end to the other with a few fluffy white throw rugs thrown in for good measure.  But who spends much time in their suite, especially when there are pressing decisions to be made like whether or not to go to the beach, or to the pool, or back to the beach.  And which drink to have where.

By the end of the second day, for some reason every bartender at every beach and swim up bar knew little eight-year-old Sonny on sight and would shout his Mexican name whenever he showed up, like he was Norm entering Cheers, “El hijo!”

At which point El hijo would order whatever the Spring Break spirit moved him to order: another chocolate milkshake, or perhaps a frozen lemonade this time, maybe even a strawberry smoothie to mix things up.

That night, not feeling super spry, El hijo retired early to the sleek pull out couch he was sharing with Sissy.  Hubby and I were in another part of the suite when we heard some weird gurgling noises and Sissy exclaim, “Oh, no, El hijo!”

When we went to investigate, we saw El hijo on the move.  An unsightly tannish mixture was foaming out of his mouth as he was bustin’ for the bathroom.  I’ll give you exactly one guess on what happens when regurgitated smoothiechocolatemilkshakefrostylemonade meets marble floors and throw rugs.

Yep, good guess!  Throw Up Slip-n-Slide.

El hijo staggered through the first few slick footsteps, seemed to right himself and then went down hard and slid halfway across the floor like he was sliding into home plate, in the process getting one whole side of himself (all the way up and THROUGH his hair) completely SCHMEARED with vomir, n’est-ce pas.  Nummy, num, num.

Ahhhh, Spring Break.  Always so much fun.  And those swim up bars?  Unbefrickinlievable, ESPECIALLY when someone throws down the Throw Up Slip-n-Slide.  So, so fun.   Just remember to bring your fifty big ones to tip the maids while they make all the Throw Up Slip-n-Slide memories go away while you huddle outside on the balcony overlooking the swim up bars.