28 May 2006
"Mom! There's chicken in the washing machine!"
My niece Chelsea, home from yet another year at university, was still sleeping when the mere mention of food sent her brother's girlfriend Heavette running for the bathroom with her hands covering her mouth. If you could harness the power of hangover vomit Canadian kids would rule the world. Heavette had not quite made it to the phone on one of her trips into the bathroom. A bath matt had paid the price.
Chelsea's mom Ingrid hollered down the stairs. Chelsea was not amused by the explanation for the chicken in the washing machine. Heavette's puke must have been so thick she could have used a fork to clean up the matt if she had been so inclined.
"Why do I have to clean up her puke?"
"Because Heavette and Nils are half way home, two hundred miles away by now," giggled Ingrid. She knew Chelsea had to do laundry before she would have to. "I'd put a little bleach in the next load!"