I threw up into my Scarf.

We were at a Chinese restaurant. One with arguably good food but a really loud waitstaff.
It's a toss up, really. 

Alli said, "So, my son is really excited about this private school we are looking at. He doesn't even mind the dress code - collared shirt on top and chinos on the bottom."

"Are they uniforms? Or dress code guidelines?"

"Just guidelines. They're allowed seven colors on top, and I think three colors on the bottom."

And then I took a drink of my water. Which turned out to be a perilous mistake.  Because just then, my quick-witted mom said, "I would think its difficult to find three-colored pants."

And there was that millisecond when I wondered if I could maintain my composure. And then there was the overwhelming response from my insides: um, no. We aren't keeping the water, the composure, or your dignity.  I didn't just hold up one courtesy finger and carefully breathe through the swallowing.  I didn't cough just a little.  I threw up into my scarf. 

It's hard to recover a conversation after a situation like that. 

(And I have one question: why are Asian restaurants so stingy with their knives and napkins? Is there some cultural rule against being generous with these meal accessories?  I was vomiting. "Could we have some napkins?" They gave us one.  One.)

I recovered. As did the scarf.