on the 12th day of christmas...

...a little girl threw up all over the Thomas the Tank Engine train table in the children's department of the book store where I work, and when I say 'work' I mean in the children's department!

So that was awesome.

No, wait. I take that back. It wasn't at all awesome. It was like asking Santa for Barbie's Penthouse and waking on Christmas morning with hopes as high as the sky only to find your stocking filled with new underwear and generic chocolates. Hope you enjoy riding around with Skipper and all your friends, including Donny and Marie and Sabrina from Charlie's Angels, in this car I made out of an empty tissue box for you, Barbie. Again! Sorry there's no room for that bionic Amazon, Jaime Sommers. Guess you'll just have to strap her to the trunk, which is never easy, thanks to your inflexible arms.

(the preceding is a true story)

(also true - my hatred for the Thomas the Tank Engine train table in the children's department, where I've seen Bash the Twin Engine live up to its name on more than one occasion when one toddler doesn't feel another is playing fairly. I sometimes dream of setting it ablaze with something acidic...just not stomach acid)

So, no, it wasn't at all awesome. Equally not as awesome? Having to clean that shiz up. The only saving grace? The mess wasn't actually s*#t. Thank you, Santa Claus. Bawk bawk. There was pastries for horking, marshmallows for spewing. Additionally, there may have been some Chik-fil-A for recycling, further cementing my claim that there's nothing I find fascinating about their waffle fries.

"I'm surprised she threw up," said the girl's mother as she scooped the soiled child up and attempted to contain her while I confetti'd the area with paper towels and tried to keep my insides from coming outside. "She hasn't thrown up since Saturday night, so I figured she was better."

Did I mention this was Monday morning, which in and of itself is already a fine slap in the face? No? Well, it was. I'm no doctor, but if I had to do a quick diagnosis, it would go a little something like this: Not better - 1. Better - 0.

I'm also not a hazardous waste materials handler, but I had to be one. The scent of Lysol hung in the air like sadness the rest of the day.Additionally, I also had to be bomb detonation specialist when I thought a parent who began protesting loudly that I was keeping her precious angel from playing on the train table because I was cleaning vomit off of it and how come, how come, HOW COME!!! was going to lose her mind.

Seriously, I would have thought the river of vomit, which is not typically part of the train table's topography, would have been tremendous give away.

Thankfully, she only lost her mind and not her stomach. I can only take so much in one day, and I'm already sufficiently beat down during this time of retail bliss. My only wish now is this headache I have isn't a sign of something more ominous chugging its way toward my intestinal tract because quite honestly, that was one gift I don't want to see keep giving.