I’m in the emergency waiting room of Stanford Hospital. It’s my third trip since I began my Stanford career, four years ago. Three trips in four years, and I’ve never been the patient—I’m just the person dumb enough to drive the sickos here. Always a bridesmaid; never a bride.
So a seventeen-year-old girl just puked ten feet in front of me. Literally, ten feet. Maybe even seven.
For this, I could have stayed at Suites. Guys peeing off the balcony outside my room is gross but, hands down, barf is grosser. I think the drunken nausea of The Barfer (who just got carried away after falling out of her wheelchair) is compounded by the fact that The Barfer is also preggers. For the record, I’m neither drunk nor pregnant—that’s right, Mom and Dad—four years at Stanford and I’m currently sober and not knocked up—I did it! I beat the odds!
I want to look at it—the barf, that is. I really do. I have to see if it’s not that bad or if maybe it was just dry heaving and there was, indeed, no barf. Otherwise I’ll be stuck here staring at the wall forever. I’m going to look.
Yeah. No, it’s real vomit.
Five minutes have passed. It’s still there—ten (or seven) feet in front of me.
I’ve only been here about an hour and a half, which is nothing for Emergency Room waits. It’s 1:18 a.m. (early Friday morning) right now, but there’s no wireless in the Stanford Emergency Room, which is why it won’t be 1:18 a.m. when I post this, my first Stanford blog.
Heaven forbid visitors have the Internet. By the way, I always tell people on tours that the campus is wireless, but there’s this voice in my head—it’s actually the voice of the old woman in Buttercup’s dream in The Princess Bride—saying, “Liar! Liar!”
You may wonder with whom I am here. No one. To be perfectly frank, I just like being here. I dig the ambiance.
OK, it’s Valerie Plame, I’m here with Valerie Plame— I mean Wilson! I’m here with Valerie WILSON. You got me.
OK, it’s not Valerie Plame, but it IS a secret and you’ll never get it out of me.
Normally (like, the two previous times), there’s crappy stuff on television in the Emergency Room. Not tonight. Tonight is Nick-at-Nite. My fav. I’ve already seen an episode of Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and I’m on my second Cosby Show. Christopher Plummer (Captain Von Trapp) is guest-starring on Cosby. Christopher Plummer + Bill Cosby = highlight of my night.
But it’s a really late episode of The Cosby Show. You know, when Rudy got awkwardly pre-pubescent so they brought in Olivia to be cute? That little bitch.
Remember when Rudy was cute? Remember when YOU were cute? Maybe it was as recent as freshmen year, but, my friend, those days are gone.
They cleaned up the vomit. I miss it.
I keep looking up every time the door to the ER opens, hoping I’ll see “Valerie Plame” walk through it, but he/she/it doesn’t come, and I can’t sustain your readership for much longer and besides, I brought equipment:
I have a movie to watch on my computer (and my computer, in case you couldn’t tell). I have yogurt (with a spoon!), my date book, two pens, Kleenex, Stanford Magazine, my tour guide name tag, dirty socks, and headphones. I learned my lesson the last two times, and you know what they say….(They say third time’s the charm. That will only be true if this night does not end in an appendectomy.)
P.S. The night did not end in an appendectomy. It ended with me taking a picture of “Valerie’s” IV drip (see above) after they let me into her/his/its bed curtain area. I gagged four times from the smell. I got home at 4 a.m.