Crap Chronicles: When IBS Strikes in all the Wrong Places
Woman vs. Food
Those who’ve seen Adam Richman’s TV show Man v. Food know the program has a way of turning otherwise normal eaters into gluttonous, grease-mongering idiots. I suspect it’s the competitive nature of the series that lures men who’re normally health-conscious into thinking they should drive to the hinterlands, ferret out a local diner, and choke down a habanero burger and two-pound platter of cheese fries for the sheer sake of the conquest.
My son Ron, like many others, succumbed to this line of thought. He even convinced his wife and children to accompany him to a joint he’d seen featured on Richman’s cable network broadcast. Already on vacation, Ron realized he needed only to veer slightly off course to get to the House of Food Challenge.
On his way to Colorado, Ron traveled through Amarillo (which is not to be confused with the state road kill of Texas: the armadillo). Mentally he associated Amarillo with the Coyote Bluff Café, a diner he’d seen Richman highlight on his popular TV show. He calculated he’d be close to that area by noon, and the family would need to eat by then, so this lunch stop would be perfect—for him.
Now, Ron is fully aware that his wife Julie, like other family members, suffers from IBS (Infinite Bouts of Shoo-shoo). Asking her to have lunch in a place known for its “Hell Burger” is kind of like asking a blind man to park your car. Accidents should be expected.
If anyone in our family deserves a Ms. Congeniality award, that prize rightfully belongs to Julie. She seldom complains and rarely protests any decision her husband makes—even when it’s obvious she should be checking him for delirium. So when Ron asked her to share a Coyote Bluff “Hell Burger,” she didn’t hesitate to say “yes.” And when their waitress asked if they’d like to order some chili cheese fries to go with that tummy teaser, Julie kept quiet.
“Why not?” Ron replied.
Several sound reasons could have been offered, but nobody spoke up.
The children, Hannah and Heath, evidencing they possess some of my DNA, exercised greater restraint with their menu selections. Perhaps that’s because these two hold suspect anything that isn’t shaped like a chicken nugget or served with a full quart of ketchup.
Ron didn’t know that one order of chili cheese fries would include two pounds of russet potatoes smothered in a full pound of cheese, topped off with a mound of green chili peppers. In fact, when the platter arrived at his table, he was so taken aback by the enormous serving size that he photographed the fries with his cell phone.
That’s how I first became aware of this digestive disaster in progress.
I’d been writing at my computer when an email arrived from Ron, whom I knew had left earlier that morning on a lengthy driving vacation. His message contained only a picture of what cardiologists might call “job security.” I’d never seen anything to compare with the size and content of those fries. My stomach roiled and my butt grew an inch wider from simply viewing the photograph.
At 12:41 p.m., I fired back a response: “That should make for an interesting road trip. Hope you’ve allowed for plenty of restroom breaks!”
The next message I received from Ron arrived at 2:57 p.m. It read simply, “Well, Julie has a story to tell!”
And indeed she did.
To fully appreciate Julie’s predicament, one must have a sense of geography. The Texas Panhandle, especially around Amarillo, is comprised of flatlands, cattle farms, and… well, not much else. When motoring through this area, choices remain few: refuel and keep going, or decompose right where you’ve stopped. For the most part, restroom options are limited to truck stops and sagebrush. So when Julie spotted a Love’s Truck Stop, she wisely advised Ron to pull in.
After she’d used the commercial facilities, Julie felt she was good to go. She’d deposited everything she needed to and was ready to view more of old Route 66, though it pretty much looked exactly like the part she’d already seen. All except for Cadillac Ranch, a roadside attraction along the planned travel route.
Cadillac Ranch is exactly what it sounds like, an open pasture full of dead classic cars where the autos have been partially buried nose-first, leaving only the back halves of the vehicles visible. It’s kind of a Texas Stonehenge without the accompanying ancestral remains. At least, I’m not aware of any bodies buried there.
Visitors are encouraged to bring spray paint and leave graffiti on this nostalgic “art display.” Periodically, the cars are repainted solid colors so the defacement process can start all over again. When installed in 1974, these vehicles were the size of similar year model Cadillacs. But today, thanks to all the paint layers, the autos’ exteriors are roughly the same thickness as the Space Shuttle’s.
To access Cadillac Ranch, visitors must park along the highway and walk about a quarter mile through an open pasture. Due to extreme summer temperatures, those who bother to hike out to the upended vehicles in the heat of the day should carry sunscreen, bottled water, and a copy of their latest will.
On this scorching June afternoon, Ron, Julie, twelve-year-old Hannah, and six-year-old Heath ventured out to get a close look at the famed landmark. Making her way along the footpath, Julie felt her stomach rumble. Probably gas, she decided. Being at the rear of the family procession, she said nothing, squeaked out a silent one, and kept walking.
The children scrambled around the cars as Ron instructed, “Y’all line up right here for a picture.” But when Julie moved closer to join them, she felt something moist—inside her white cotton Capri pants.
“We have to go right now,” Julie barked.
Ron knew what that tone meant because he’d heard it many times before. Hurriedly, he collected the children.
Julie quick-stepped toward the family SUV parked on the highway shoulder. But as she moved, her situation worsened.
“Can you see anything on my pants?” she squealed.
“You think it’s already in your pants?” Ron glanced at Julie’s behind, but she’d pulled her T-shirt down far enough to cover the evidence. “I don’t see anything,” he reassured.
Julie stopped in her tracks, doubled over with abdominal spasms. That quarter-mile jaunt back to the vehicle might as well have been a cross-country journey.
When she finally arrived at the SUV, Julie couldn’t climb inside because her Capris were soaked. Cars zoomed past on the roadway while she hid behind a passenger-side door and wondered what to do next.
“What’s wrong?” Hannah asked.
“Oh, mother nature just came to visit,” Julie lied. Right then, she remembered she’d earlier placed some feminine napkins in the glove box, though this wasn’t exactly the kind of emergency she’d anticipated. Given she’d now filled her pants with more than air, she had no choice but to drop her drawers and shove a Maxi-pad where it wasn’t designed to go.
Extra-cushioned for the ride to the nearest restroom, Julie eased into the vehicle. Silently, she gave thanks for leather car seats. She hoped Ron’s police status would help if they were stopped by a highway patrolman. Under her circumstances, buckling up was not an option.
Ron hastened back to the nearest truck stop with Julie perched on the edge of her captain’s chair and counting the seconds.
By the time the family arrived at the big rig facility, Julie was in need of a complete change of clothing and a full facial disguise. She barked orders to Hannah, instructing her to expedite a pair of shorts and underwear to the ladies’ room, then sprinted for porcelain.
Unfortunately, all Julie’s extra garments were buried inside luggage now trapped under four bicycles and a spaghetti assemblage of bungee cords.
“I can’t wait to scrapbook this,” Hannah said, while Julie stood naked from the waist down inside a bathroom stall, waiting on Ron to wrestle free her clean panties.
Every time Ron tells this story, he delivers the final line with Adam Richman-like flair. “In this tale of Woman Versus Food, I think it’s fair to say… food won.”
~