Every week I sit down and write about myself. It feels so narcissistic, so self indulgent. I really write like no one is reading – one, to stay honest, and two, because it feels so self-absorbed otherwise. This is my therapy, I’m working some shit out, but I appreciate all of you who take the time to read my mind vomit. I’m a put-your-money-where-your-mouth-is kind of girl – so I’m writing about the most embarrassing moment of my life, like no one is reading. Kate loves this story. After all these years, it still brings tears to her eyes. Her favorite thing is to liquor me up and prompt the story with the new men in my life, at cocktail parties, church socials, bumping into people on the street, you know, anytime is a good time to make strangers uncomfortable. And, after this, let’s not ever speak of it again. Amen.
The scene: I’m 24 years old, and 4 days into my marriage, honeymooning at Martha’s Vineyard. My new husband, Dean and I were staying at the loveliest little B&B. Sooo – here we go. Our last night there we were going for dinner and then had tickets for a play. We went to a great restaurant, where I had the best lobster of my life. After, we went to the car and Dean opened my door for me, this was before he hated me and did such things, I got in and he went around. Here is the thing. I had a little bubble, a little rumbly in my tummy. I sincerely thought – I had a few seconds – a little toot, a small poot – no harm, no foul. But, here is the thing. In the thirty seconds of Dean going around to the driver’s side, I found out rather quickly, that it was indeed no little toot, no small poot. My body had betrayed me and it was, well, diarrhea. Fuuuckkkk. Meeeee. Just so you can understand the direness of the situation, I will lay it out for you, kind readers. I was on my honeymoon. Tiny panties. Short dress. In the nicest of words, there was a containment problem, my borders had been breached, and I was headed to the theater.
Dean got into the car and started the engine. As all husbands do, he asked for directions. I thought, I have got to shut this shit show down. Literally and figuratively. But how? How do I say THIS, out loud, to my shiny, new husband? I didn’t think I had the fortitude or the words necessary, but I HAD to do something. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I screamed in my head, “DO SOMETHING!” I said the only thing a girl could say in this situation. I said, “Guess what?” He said, lovely and sweet, “You love me?” I shook my head rapidly in the negative, but said, “Yes, but no.” I tried again. “Guess what?” I am covered in flop sweat by this time. Serious flop sweat. Dean guessed,”You’re happy?” I shook my head rapidly no again, but said, “Yes, but no.” We were at code red. I said one more time, hangdog, “Guess what?” By now, it had become aromatically apparent that there was a situation. He guessed correctly. My bad. I mourned the days before when I hadn’t shit myself in front of my spouse. I explained to him that there was a serious transgression in my teeny knickers…and on the cloth seats of the rental car….and my dress. I was a breathing bio-hazard.
I needed a shower…and a change of clothes. BUT – we were staying at a bed and breakfast – and it was happy hour. We pulled into the parking lot. I needed to get up the stairs to our room. Desperately. There were thirty people in the foyer and living room, blocking the stairs. Dean gave me his jacket and I tied it around my waist. Lipstick on a pig.
We walked in. People turned to look – they sang out, “The Newlyweds”. Oy Vey. My position was precarious and had begun to run down my leg – I didn’t have the luxury of chit chat. I threw Dean to the wolves and I managed to climb the stairs cross-legged to our room. I took a Silkwood shower. Twice. Do I know how to show a guy a good time or what? Dean and I were divorced for four years before we spoke of this again. Kate, on the other hand, has the t-shirt.
Just an off story from the honeymoon – Dean and I had gone to visit a psychic on the island. She asked me to sit down and told me that I would have three children (true). I asked her, “How soon?” She said, “Very, very soon.” True, I was about 24 hours pregnant, not known at the time. Then she said, “I need to speak to your husband alone.” To this day, I don’t know what she told him. I don’t know if she saw our demise or if she was predicting we were going to have trouble getting to the theater later that day. Dude. I could have used a heads up.
Nowadays, “Guess What” is the code word for bad news to those near and dear to me. Y’all now know my honeymoon story. If you see Kate, tell her to hush. The moral of the story: guess what, shit happens. Not so narcissistic now, right?
Go forth and conquer.