SUPER-Embarrassing Moment #5: Oh Crap.December 22, 2007
The Year: 1989….
It was a time to rejoice, feast, and drape ourselves in richly-coloured silks…
It was a time for an Indian Wedding .
The princess was my aunt, and the prince…well…he was some dude who had recently arrived on a sugar-cane boat (hurray for marrying immigrants you’ve never met! )
Now this was my very first wedding (Indian or otherwise), so you can totally imagine my excitement.
My mom was the one who was planning the “Arranged Parade”, so I found myself right in the thick of it.
As you may or may not know, Indian weddings are known for the FOOD. Seriously, brown people know their stuff. It’s not even the food at the reception that makes the event. If anything, it’s the night-time feasts leading UP to the wedding day…that’s what the people remember.
And for me (the round-bellied girl with excessive saliva), it was ALL ABOUT the food.
Our “night-before-the-wedding-feast” was lavish. I mean obviously there was a “party” happening around the food, but you coulda fooled me. I couldn’t even hear the music, or see the people, or feel the “old-lady hugs”…
Instead, I was overwhelmed with a single thought:
food + belly = HAPPY
The entire event was nothing more than my very own deep-fried, syrupy, pistachio-filled playground.
For most of the evening, I was eating up a storm and dancing on a cloud.
At some point in the night, I must’ve O.D.-ed on all the food, ’cause I awoke the next day in a state of “confused user”. I found myself curled up in a ball on the floor, knee-deep in crumbs and damp from all the “calorie-sweat”.
As I finally tried to get up, I stopped for a moment and listened: my stomach was rumbling fiercely, what was it trying to tell me?
Before it could even answer, I felt something…
SOMETHING was hurdling down the chute.
I raced to the bathroom “Canadian drugged-up-sprinter”-style, breaking my own world record, and arriving just in time.
Do you need any further detail??? Shudder…
I certainly would have liked to solve my “issue” with some meds (or a diaper for 8-year olds), but it was already time for the wedding!
Sooo…even though I was dripping with sweat, I managed to wrap myself in layer-upon-layer of (seductive) silk, and I forced myself to the ceremony (is it wrong to refer to an 8-year-old as seductive?).
Now the thing about weddings (whether Indian or not), is that you pretty much have to watch attentively, and also shut the hell up.
And to add a little colour to the Indian affair, everyone sits on the floor, positioning themselves in a big human maze.
So basically there was no getting out of that place.
This was a MAJOR problem, since “crap attack” #2 was well on its way.
After a few vain attempts to “hold it in”, I was out of luck.
Do I even have to go any further, or is that quite enough in the “imagery” department?
Well…I already brought you halfway here, so why not continue?
So basically I crapped my pants (and not “logs’ mind you, but more like the liquidy-diarrhea stuff (I KNOW, wtf? I’m wanting to puke as I write this…)).
Now don’t be fooled, I didn’t have a big ol’ sac of “liquid-crap” in my undies, but the damage was pretty apparent.
This was a tough situation, and not just in the sense of sitting in a warm bowl of “poo-stew”. What I mean is, I’m sure all the people around me could smell it…right?
In order to avert the “stink bomb blame”, I had to think fast.
So like a crafty con-man, I immediately “turned that shit around” (no pun intended), by pointing to a DAMN ugly baby: “ewwww, gross smelly baby!“ I exclaimed, in my innocent 8-yr old voice.
The trickery worked like a charm, ’cause it’s universially known that ugly babies have the smelliest poo (same goes for ugly adults).
So with the smell-crisis over, the ceremony finally ended.
At this point I was thinking “yo, what’s next?”
I had to clean up all the “poo stew”, so I hobbled on over to the women’s public bathroom.
I didn’t really know what to do once I got there…
I couldn’t tell my mom that I was walking around with crap-filled undies, ’cause it surely would’ve ruined the “big day”.
So I kinda just hung around, all confused-like, for about…20 minutes (I guess I should’ve cleaned myself up, but the mess was way too big for me to handle on my own).
After what seemed like 20 hours, a friend of my mom’s came into the bathroom. She took one look at my “soiled derriere”, and responded with shock and disgust.
Quickly though, her “it doesn’t matter if you are gross and damaged, I’ll look after you” maternal instincts kicked in (phew!).
Needless to say, she dropped my pants and undies, and cleaned me the fuck up.
But here’s a problem: I was now in a public bathroom with no pants or underwear.
Well like a true embarrassing spectacle, my mom’s friend “called for reinforcements”.
They raced right home to get me another outfit.
As I waited for my new set of clothes, I basically crapped my ass off (only now I was in the right place at the right time).
Other than that, I just sat in a corner of the public bathroom, stick-legs shivering, bum-crack raw from all the wiping.
When the reinforcements finally returned with my outfit, 10 or 12 people followed them in (you can call them “curious bystanders”, but I’m gonna call them assholes..)
As word of my “accident” spread, my mom had suddenly arrived, sporting her meanest “I’m gonna slap the teeth out of you” face. Luckily for me, she was way too busy with the wedding details to deliver the actual slap.
Instead, she just re-told the story about A MILLION times afterwards (i.e. “I TOLD her not to eat so much!”)).
Fast forward to today, and anytime someone in my family poos their pants (a couple times a year), my mom will bust out the tale once again (and that’s exactly how I wanted to be immortalized…Sure…)
And so….what’s the moral of the story, this last in my “Embarrassing” series?
Well it’s simple: Indian food is a two-faced whore, so be careful (and for the love of God use protection)
On a completely different note, wonderful Red gave me an award this week (yes, she feels that I’m bodacious )
I was SO flattered, and in an effort to pass along the goodness, I’ve identified two bodacious bloggers on my ‘roll who MUST be named.
Like me, these two chicks are Canadian, but more different from one another they could not be. Despite the contrast, each makes me laugh in her own special way.
Their writing speaks volumes of their wicked personalities, and I hope they keep it up in ’08.
So here they are, my bodacious bloggers:
Greenie at “Christmas Time in the Emerald City”
Talea at “No Really, It’s Just My Face”