dramatic dry-heaving

 The day was winding down, and I was ready to sink into the land of sofatuation and temporarily become a vegetable on my favorite piece of furniture. My mother was visiting, and we picked out a movie I thought we’d all like. It became clear that my choice of thriller was not well-suited to my mother’s jumpy nature, as she spent the following two hours yelping like a surprised cocker-spaniel and wailing “Ow weiah! I can’t watch!” while covering her eyes. “Tell me what’s happening!”

“Sure,” I said as I begun to narrate, “The man exits the building and sees a body, still and bloodied, black and wet, glistening in the moonlight.” I was enjoying my dramatic narration so much, that I was nearly disappointed when she started watching again.

In one scene, where a hospital floor full of corpses was discovered, she screamed, and immediately made a sound like she was going to vomit. “I can’t look!” she cried between puking sounds. “What are you making me watch! Why did you do this to me?” she lamented.

Carl and I traded knowing glances and shrugged. We were familiar with these theatrics, and knew it was best not to feed into them.

“If you have to vomit, you should probably go the bathroom” I said casually, wondering when her show of disapproval would end.

“Huuuuuugh!” she continued as she paced to and fro within the living room, intermittently pausing to dramatically dry heave.

About five minutes of heaving with no signs of actual vomit, she settled back onto the sofa and we finished the movie.