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 When Onion Soup AttacksPosted 06.28.2007 by GottaGoGirl (2615)
If you've read around PoopReport much, you're bound to have seen a post or two by a guy called The Dumpster. Dumpie made quite a name and reputation for himself on this site this past year; in fact, he and I joined almost at the same time. It didn't take long before he and I realized that we have quite a bit in common, and a lovely friendship bloomed. I guess it was due to all the fertilizer around here! In other words, springing forth from the fertile ground of the one and only PoopReport, GGG and Dumpie have grown to be best friends. God bless Dave and the Internet!
At one point, I happened to mention that I wanted to get in better shape, and Dumpster said he would like to help me. The plan was formed that he would set aside certain blocks of time for me during the week. During these times I would go out and walk, and he would talk to me on the phone, keeping me company and encouraging me to keep going by telling me silly stories, lecturing me on subjects of common interest, or simply telling me how wonderful I am. "Dang," I thought. "What more could a girl ask for?" Over the course of the last couple months, as I walked my 5.2 mile route, Dumpie became familiar with certain landmarks I'd mention along the way. "Where are you now?" he would ask. "There's not too much traffic, is there? Is it dark? Are you safe?" Among other things, his caring and protection are what endear him to me. One morning we had a lively discussion regarding various techniques of making soup (yes, that's what we talked about, really), and I decided to make some French onion soup for my lunch. Through the course of the morning I called the Dumpster and reported to his voicemail precisely what the ingredients looked and smelled like. He was going to be sorry he missed THIS soup! Indeed, he called me at one point, announcing that he would be ordering French onion soup for his supper that very evening after he finished lecturing. Since he couldn't "join" me on my walk that afternoon, the idea occurred to me that I could take pictures of some of the landmarks on my walk route and send them to him so he'd have an idea of where I was when I said, "I'm going along the stone wall now," or "I just passed the yard with the crazy dog." So after my excellent lunch of green salad and some very good onion soup, I put GoBoy in the stroller, my camera in hand, with landmarks on the horizon. I chugged along, pushing the stroller, doling out Goldfish crackers and toys, thanking God for sunscreen and wide-brimmed hats, and snapping pictures of the various unique spots along my walk route. I was at the exact farthest point from home when the gurgling started. It was a small gurgle at first -- one that might have been simply my lunch digesting. I didn't think anything about it as I snapped a picture of the green cable box on which I have rested many a time, sipping water and talking to Dumpie. Around the corner I trekked, GoBoy now drowsily lolling in the stroller, when the gurgle happened again -- more insistently this time. I idly considered my luncheon: green salad and onion soup, which had been eaten immediately before setting out. Could it really have processed already? As the gurgle lengthened and I felt it go 'round the curve of my intestinal tract, I had the inkling, "Can broth really move that fast? Wouldn't the lettuce slow it down some?" It would appear not. Even the "C" route was still several blocks long, with no shortcuts back to the house. I had no choice but to continue on my way, resolving to finish capturing my landmarks on screen and to firmly retain my rapidly-descending soup-and-salad combo. Key word here: "rapidly". The next gurgle was accompanied by an emphatic rat-a-tat-tat at my back door, which I had to slam shut. I was regretting several decisions that morning. I thought about calling The Dumpster and telling him, "Maybe you don't want to order soup tonight!" But I didn't want to worry him. The other thought that went through my mind: what would I do if the unthinkable happened? What if I shat my shorts? It would be one thing to lose a turd, but this impending accident would be of the liquid variety. There was a beach towel in the bottom of the stroller normally used for shade protection, but I pictured it pressed into service as a sarong. That would do nothing to hide shit-splattered sneakers, but at least I could cover brown-streaked legs, if necessary. The last lap of the journey is down a very steep hill, followed by a flat stretch about a block long. That hill, what with the gurgling, the clenching, the sweating, and keeping the stroller from getting away from me, proved to be a challenge. The only upside was that I could lean on the handle of the stroller while going along the flat part. I made it to the house, extricated my son from the stroller, fished out my keys, and got the door open. I was headed for the bathroom when I heard a knock on the front door -- which, in my haste, I'd failed to close all the way. "Grghk!" There was the neighbor lady with a flyer about a class she thought our sons could do together. I tried to extract myself, but right behind her came the gardener, wanting to ask a question. The neighbor lady left, but now I had to get rid of the gardener. "Si, si. Bueno. Entiendo. Hazlo. Bueno. Okay. Gotta go!" I pushed him out the door and tried to bolt down the four steps to the family room's powder bath; but I was brought up short by a massive, window-rattling gurgle as my hand hit the banister. I had to stand up straight, breathe shallowly, grit my teeth, and clench my ass shut as I tried to maneuver down the steps. "Damn it. Damn it. Damn it," I ground out as I hobbled to the bathroom. I was only halfway across the family room before I felt a hot squeak. "GAH! No! No, no, no!" I growled in my throat as I shif-shuffled the rest of the way to the bathroom. At that moment I had the ridiculous thought: "Hmmn. I must be allergic to onions. Is that possible? That would be sad. I love onions." I made it into the bathroom and tried to shut the door, but the stepstool was in the way. I gave up and performed the potty ballet maneuver with the door open, dead certain that I'd have a mess to clean up. Against the odds, my aim was true: the French invasion (a contradiction in terms, I realize) detonated into the commode. It was long, it was loud, and it was liquid. It felt and smelled very much like when it had gone in the other end, although I was far less enthusiastic about it this time around. I declined to subject myself to the view; there are some things about which I don't need too many details. I flushed mid-river and knew I had to wait it out. A second round of Déluge de Oignon Horreur had vociferously commenced when a cry went up from the other room. "Mama! I'm bleeding!" (Actually, it's pronounced "bweeding".) GoBoy had a nosebleed, but I was anchored to the porcelain Grand Voilier Feces. "I can't come there." I called out, over the bung din. "Come here!" Pressing his hand to his face, he made his way to where I sat (at least he was holding his nose already). I tossed out his discarded pajamas from the laundry. "Use this!" "My pie-jammers?" He queried querulously. "On my bwoody nodes?" "Yes!" We certainly were a pair: me trapped sitting on the toilet, leaking. Him trapped on the floor outside the bathroom, also leaking, lying down, neither of us able to do much of anything but wait it out. Misery loves company, they say, but I'd have just as soon have had less of both right then. At least he didn't have poop in his nose, and I didn't have... well, anyway... Eventually, mercifully, both of our deluges stopped. GoBoy wadded up his pajama top and washed his hands in the kitchen while I dabbed the splatters off myself and washed my hands in the bathroom. I took him upstairs and plunked him in one shower while I rinsed off in the other. GottaMan and I were going out that night. I did NOT need a repeat of the above scene, so I popped an extra-strength Imodium. Luckily, the onion soup seemed to have run its course, so to speak, and I had no further problems. I did throw away the rest of the pot of soup, though. I wasn't taking any chances. The pictures came out great. Post new comment
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