The Mutter Museum

Ex-Boyfriend casually asked, about a month ago, if I would like to go to the Mutter Museum. (Learn about the Mutter Museum.)

“It’s got all sorts of crazy stuff, like swallowed objects and shrunken heads and old medical equipment.”

“Sure,” I said because it did sound somewhat cool and, you know, why not.

Why not became clear as several factoids about the trip began to emerge. Specifically:

1) His college-age sister would be coming along
2) We would be leaving very early in the morning to get there because,
3) It’s in fucking Philadelphia.

Yet the actual date of this excursion was always fuzzy, in the vague far off future. So I played along. “Sure, mmhhhmmm. Mutter Museum. Awesome.”

Friday it came.

“My sister’s here and we’re going to the Mutter Museum tomorrow.”

“I can’t go tomorrow, people are visiting from out of town and we're all going out for my friend's birthday.”

“Okay, we’ll go Sunday.”

Fuck.

“We’ll have to leave around 8:30.”

Fuck?!

“I’ll think about it,” I told him. He looked upset. “I mean, I’ll go.” I didn’t want to make any hasty promises, but I also didn’t want to look at his pouty face anymore.

I put it out of my mind.

Saturday night came, and I was very drunk. The birthday boy had seemed a bit dour, so I had bought him more than one round of shots in an effort to jumpstart the celebration. All that I had accomplished was making him sleepy and myself a nuisance.

Ex-Boyfriend called.

“I’m with my sister. We’re going to meet up with you guys.”

“Totally!” I yelled. “That sounds, like, wonderful.”

“Where are you?”

“I don’t know but it’s wonderful. Let me find out.”

Ex-Boyfriend, his sister and I drank far into the night/early morning. We stayed out long after the birthday boy and didn't go home until Ex-Boyfriend put on my newly purchased red lipstick in the middle of Ludlow street.

Due to the presence of out of town guests, I returned to my own apartment, leaving Ex-Boyfriend and his sister with much fanfare, feeling that life was just fantastic and alcohol was super great.

My cell phone rang at 8:30 on Sunday morning. I flipped it open and waited for Ex-Boyfriend to explain himself.

“We’re going to leave at ten.”

“So why are you calling me now?”

“I just wanted to let you know.”

“Why are you even awake?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you ever get hungover?”

“Ohhh…you’re grumpy. Go back to bed.”

“I hate you.”

The phone rang half an hour later.

“We’re getting breakfast sandwiches. Do you want something?”

“I need to sleep.”

“So no breakfast sandwich?”

“No. Actually, I don’t think I can go at all."

"What?!"

"I got like two hours of sleep." I sounded desperate, even to myself.

“Come on! You said you would come! Don’t do this. You promised.”

I sighed loudly. “Fine. But I’m not showering.” It was the most fight I could muster while so hung over.

I would have tried a bit harder had I known the car was a manual. Being in a car with a stick shift makes me nauseous even without the aid of a drunken night.

I spent the two and a half hours to Philadelphia curled up in a ball in the backseat. Though I, through the grace of God, managed not to vomit all over the backseat of Ex-Boyfriend’s sister’s car, I did, however, leap out as soon as we were parked in front of the Mutter Museum and vomit all over the (unfortunately colored) white car next to us.

Ex-Boyfriend and his sister looked away. I couldn’t help feeling that any respect this girl may have had for the fun party girl she met last night had completely eroded. No one likes the fun party girl who vomits the next day, it’s way too Tara Reid.

We advanced into the museum. While interesting, it reeked of chemicals and stuffy air, and the sight of preserved fetuses did little to help my queasy stomach. My entire stay in the Mutter Museum consisted of me either trying not to vomit, being pleased that I momentarily felt no need to vomit or hoping that neither Ex-Boyfriend nor his sister would notice that I looked like I had to vomit. (They both noticed).

When I was at last dropped off at the safety of my apartment that evening, I gave the sister a “Nice to meet you,” managing not to add “Really, I am not a sad little girl who cannot hold her liquor, I get car sick sometimes, and I need sleep and this car is a stick shift and your brother forced me to come and if you don’t like me fuck you, but otherwise you actually seem really cool.”

Then I ran inside and vomited because we had been stuck in traffic for a bit which, what with the aforementioned stick shift and Ex-Boyfriend's agressive driving, had done nothing to settle my stomach.

Though the experience itself was awful, I thought maybe I could get some cache out of having been to the Mutter Museum. But when I mentioned it to a coworker this morning, she responded with “Why would you go there?” and I hadn’t even told her about the preserved fetuses. Oh well.