Friday, July 10, 2009

A Brewing Storm

One of the best selling points about our MOMS club is that we will cook meals for families who welcome a new baby into their homes. The mom gets the choice of twice a week for 6 weeks or three times a week for a month. It's a God send. Especially for new moms who can barely muster enough energy to keep their eyes open, much less cook dinner. I stupidly did not join the club until Bear was a few months old which means that I never benefited from this gesture. I'm campaigning to see if I can get back track compensation. So far there are no takers.

One of our newest members recently had a new baby girl and the other night was my night to feed her family. I made a spinach quiche that included mushrooms, onions, garlic, eggs and feta cheese in a crumbly crust. I also included a summer salad and homemade chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting. It smelled scrumptious. As with any other time that I have to cook meals, I simply make twice the customary amount and give half to the family and keep half for us. This way, I don't have to make two separate dinners while fighting off children who still think they need to be attached to me at every moment of the day. Really, I'm not that incredible kids, go play!

I made my dinner delivery and then came home to feast with my family. The smells that filled the house were only a prelude to the deliciousness that was dinner. Afterward, Birdie and I decided to take a walk through the neighborhood. Well, I walked, she rode her bike.

It was a cool evening and while part of the sky was bright and blue, the other part held ominous clouds that threatened to deliver a downpour at any second. We took a chance and luckily, we escaped without a drop. But that was the good news.

I walked down my street and had just turned on to another when I started to feel sluggish. I suddenly felt out of breath which was strange because I was only walking. Then I started to get terrible stomach cramps. They came and went and I crossed my fingers and hoped that it was a passing rumble.

Big mistake.

A few minutes later we turned on yet another street and Birdie raced down the hill so fast that I could only barely see the light beaming off of her helmet.

And then it hit.

It wasn't one of those dull warnings that let you know that you have about twenty minutes to get situated, grab a magazine and leisurely sit down for a calm constitution. It wasn't like a hurricane warning where the forecasters tell you that you have about 5 days to board up your house, call your insurance company, pack up your treasures and head out of town. No, this was more like a blaring tornado siren. It wasn't there for any real kind of warning, it was there to give me a second to realize that the storm was already over my head and I better say a quick prayer because I was about to die. There was no time to run, there was no time to duck, I was plain shit out of luck.

But I was standing in the middle of the street, still in our neighborhood but a good 10 minute walk from our house. And I didn't have 10 minutes. For a second I panicked. Should I sit down and ask Birdie to ride back to the house so Howie could come pick me up? No. It would take too long and I couldn't guarantee that she wouldn't stop off and chat with a neighbor for half an hour or stop to pick dandelions from someone's yard.

I started to break out in a cold sweat. My intestines were churning and the pain commenced. Lord help me. I knew I wouldn't make it home and I knew nobody could come get me so my options were either shit my pants right there in the street or knock on a neighbor's door. Problem is, while I know these people, I don't really KNOW them if you catch my drift. I don't know them by name, I know them partly by face when they drive past my house or I walk past theirs. I know they put new siding on their house but I don't know their dog's name or how many children they have. I definitely don't know them well enough to show up at their doorstep when they are eating dinner and ask them if I can run in real quick and take a dump.

I walked a few steps but had to stop. Then I saw a neighbor's son standing outside with their dog and since I was desperate I asked him if his mom was home. She knows me slightly. We bought a few things at their last tag sale and their daughter babysat for us a couple of years back.

"Um. Hi. You probably don't remember me but my name is Licha and we live up on the hill and your sister used to babysit for us, is your mom home?"
"Oh, yeaaah, I remember. No, sorry she's not here.
*Clearing throat* "I'm so sorry to ask this, but do you mind if I use your restroom. Silly me should have done it before I left the house."

You see, I was pretending that the whole thing was no big deal, that I was just going to come in for a second and take a quick tinkle. What was I supposed to say? "Holy cow, I ate something that made me really sick and I'm about to poop in my pants can I please come in and disgrace your family toilet?"

No. I was not going to say that. He was sweet. He let me right in and I strolled patiently across their kitchen, trying to seem calm. I even made a comment about how nice their kitchen renovation turned out. All the while I was chanting on the inside, "i'm gonna lose it, I'm gonna lose it. I hate quiche, I hate quiche."

Then I quickly closed the door to the bathroom, flicked on the air vent and got into position. Sweet lord above, thank God for this kind and understanding young man who let me use his bathroom because without him I would have ended up a neighborhood legend. A scary story that parents would tell their children to scare them into not wanting to play outside.

As it is, I'm probably still gonna be stamped and labeled, "the woman who takes walks through the neighborhood and might show up on your doorstep to ask to use something totally inappropriate. She'll use your toilet, borrow a tampon and then use your toe nail clippers." Of course, I only asked to use the bathroom but you know how stories get embellished. By the time the story makes it's rounds I will have come in and walked naked through someone's house.

Lets just hope that the young man was just trying to be nice when he said he remembered me and really has NO idea who I am!

7 comments:

  1. Oh Licha.
    I shouldn't giggle.
    I've had those bad reactions to food. I've even had food poisoning (which I would only wish upon my ex). That is NOT FUN.
    That said...here I am giggling.
    You know the story is going to be that you just wander around checking out people's medicine cabinets. ;)

    ReplyDelete
  2. You are hilarious! I think we have all had those 'problems'!

    You made me laugh. I'll be back!

    ReplyDelete
  3. OMG! Have I been there! I take medication before I eat so that very thing doesn't happen. But I've had very close calls.

    Like the time we were traveling through Arizona and stopped for breakfast in Sedona. We were heading to Jerome (45 minutes away) and stopped (for 45 minutes) due to road construction when my stomach kicked in.

    To this day, I don't how I made it 1 1/2 hours before we got there. All I remember is running out of the car before it was even stopped.

    I'm wondering: how's the other family? lol!

    ReplyDelete
  4. I was worried about them too but nothing happened to my family. Howie was fine, the kids were fine so I'm thinking that it had everything to do with my stomach not being able to handle something. That sort of thing happens with old age :-)

    ReplyDelete
  5. OH MY GOODNESS!!!! How lucky you were to have3 this youngster happen to show his face and helped you "save" your face walking the rest of the way home.

    I am happy to hear that this happened only to you and not your family and the 2nd family receiving your dinner that day. It all sounded so yummy at the beginning.

    Jane of Ohio

    ReplyDelete
  6. Doing some blog hopping tonight and landed on your blog. I'm so glad I did. Not that I would laugh at your situation (giggle, giggle)...but I thoroughly enjoyed your writing. I will be back to read more!!

    ~ Jennifer
    http://thetoyboxyears.blogspot.com/2009/06/wire-hangers-or-ballet-shoes.html

    ReplyDelete

Show some love, leave a comment. I do comment back by the way. Because I like to have the last word. :-)