[Rain Man]

Oh. I have another good vomit story. My mother's mother got a divorce in 1950, and moved to California, leaving her three children behind. She never wanted to see anyone from Missouri again, and refused to have contact with anyone in the family, which obviously hurt the kids, particularly my mom, who was only six years old when she was left behind.

So fast forward to 1965. I'm two years old, and my parents decide to go to Disneyland. They, my sister, and I make the trek from Missouri to Anaheim. On the way, my 22 year-old mother hatches a plan to simply knock on her mother's door and force a visit, which will be first time she's seen her in 16 years.

They find the house, she knocks on the door, and they go in. I then proceed to throw up on the woman's white couch. After about ten minutes, the woman says she has an appointment, and asks us to come back the next day. When my parents go back the next day, the woman is not home.

Therefore, I have seen my grandmother one time for ten minutes in my 44 years of life, and I threw up on her couch. I'm guessing her opinion of me is not high.