Mexican Food Two-Step
From inside a restaurant in the Texas Hill Country, I phoned a man who lives in a subdivision where my husband and I own a tract of land. “Could we come by and meet you today?” I asked the perfect stranger.
“Of course,” our potential neighbor said. “Come ahead.”
Anxious to meet local residents, I rushed to finish my quesadillas.
My husband, having eaten at his usual pace, had already finished off a massive chile relleno and was staring like a wolf at my food. “Is that all you’re going to eat?” Jim asked. He gave me an accusing look and took a sip of his second margarita.
“I’m full,” I insisted.
Shoving a fork my direction, he stabbed at my lunch remains.
I held up one hand, traffic-cop style. “Really, you might want to rethink that decision. We’re about to visit the HOA president for the first time. You don’t want to destroy the man’s bathroom. That wouldn’t make a good first impression.”
Hubby gave me a maniacal look, laughed, and kept chewing.
I excused myself to find the ladies’ room, leaving Jim to spend a private moment with my leftovers.
Long ago, I learned my guy has food issues. He can’t stand to see anyone leave a morsel on his or her plate. Most mammals will eat until they’re full and then quit. But some will gorge until they become ill or even die. My spouse fits in the latter class.
As expected, Jim polished off the rest of my meal—including a cup of pinto beans I hadn’t touched.
Leaving the restaurant, Jim groaned and rubbed at his stomach.
A few minutes later, my overeater casually remarked, “I probably should have gone to the restroom back there.”
The Mexican food joint we’d just left offered the only commercial toilet within miles. Already en route to our vacant four-acre tract of land, we remained an hour away from our hotel room. For reasons only Jim can explain, he’d waited until we were in transit to a partially developed subdivision to consider his potty needs.
I glared at him. “Please tell me you don’t have to go now.”
He squirmed in his seat. “I’ll make it.”
“What is it?”
“I just have to pee. Don’t worry. I’ll go on our land.”
“Oh, right. You’ll just whip it out right there, so folks can see what kind of high-class people we are.” I rolled my eyes.
“I’ll go in the trees. Nobody can see me there.”
“No-o-o, of course not. You’re wearing a bright red Texas Rangers T-shirt. You’ll blend right in with the landscape.”
Jim let out that sinister laugh, the one that always precedes an embarrassing episode.
We’d been on our acreage for all of five minutes when Jim grabbed his stomach. “Uh-oh,” he said, rubbing at his gut. “It’s going to be more than pee. Do we have any toilet paper in the car?”
“Toilet paper? Why would I have put toilet paper in the car?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “I wasn’t planning for you to return those quesadillas here.”
He scanned the horizon in search of a clearing. “How ‘bout napkins?” he asked, his voice rising a half-octave.
I shook my head. “There’s maybe one or two in the console.”
“Get ‘em,” Jim said. “I’m about to mark my territory.”
On my way back to the car, I pushed my way through thick brush and tall grass. “Good grief. Why doesn’t he heed my warnings?” I complained to no one. “I do my best to save him from himself, but he never listens.”
At the street, I checked to see if Jim was visible from that vantage point. Peering back toward the woods and through the nearly leafless trees, I glimpsed his caution flag-toned T-shirt. Beneath the bold-colored fabric, and in stark contrast, protruded his hairy rump bump.
Given my luck, right about now, the neighbors would alter their plans and decide to meet us at our lot.
From out of nowhere, a construction truck approached.
“I can see you!” I shouted.
“Can you bring me something?” Jim hollered back, oblivious to the work truck chugging nearer.
I rummaged through the console and turned up nothing.
“There aren’t any napkins,” I yelled. “Pull up your pants, for God’s sakes!”
“I can’t pull up my pants until you bring me something! Don’t we have a newspaper?”
Tearing through the car trunk, I regretted going digital. “No! There’s not any newspaper in here.”
The construction vehicle passed me.
I raised my head out from under the trunk lid to see what the workers might have witnessed.
Jim stood facing me, with his jeans around his ankles and his manhood in full view. “Well, bring me anything!” he demanded.
Grabbing the only toilet paper substitute I could find, I marched toward my shameless spouse.
Jim loomed motionless above his atomic dump which, to my utter disgust, dripped from the brambles behind him.
“I can’t be-lieve you’re doing this to me.” I turned my head away from his mess. “This is all I could find.” With a backward reach, I handed him a dozen sheets of notebook paper. “And this is not how I intended to use my journal.”
Minutes later, Jim buried the evidence of his colonic catastrophe and returned to the vehicle. “Is there any water in here?” he asked, still sniggering. “I mean, I’d hate to tell the guy, ‘Uh, you might not want to shake that hand.’” He hee-hawed at that thought.
“First, I have to give up my journal paper,” I groused, “and now I have to lose my drinking water, all because you can’t anticipate your bathroom needs?” I’d reached my tolerance limit. But I had to shift my mood within the next half mile. When we met our potential neighbors, I didn’t want them to think a divorce might be on the horizon.
Fortunately, Jim didn’t jeopardize our future building permit by destroying the HOA president’s pristine home with one of his deadly dookie bombs. We managed to escape the visit without incident.
While driving back to our hotel room, hubby looked at me and said, “You know, I don’t know what it was… maybe all that walking outdoors today, but I feel like I need a shower.”
I’m not kidding. He said that with a straight face.
I waited to hear his usual guffaw, but there wasn’t one. “Are you serious?”
Jim nodded.
“More like, all the pooping outdoors.”
He smirked. “Oh, yeah,” he said, as if that experience had already become a lost memory.
My guy thought he had gotten away without anyone besides me knowing what he did that day. But I wasn’t about to let him off that easily after he’d wiped his butt with my journal.
I just hope that HOA president never reads this.
The End
Thank you for reading Crap Chronicles and sharing a few laughs with me. If you enjoyed this eBook, you might also like one or more of the titles listed below. To contact me or tell me your funniest “uh-oh” story (I never tire of them.), visit TheCrapChronicles.com. You may also find me at TotallySkewed.com and on my blog, TotallySkewed.Wordpress.com.
Other humor titles by Diana Estill
Driving on the Wrong Side of the Road
Deedee Divine’s Totally Skewed Guide to Life
Stilettos No More
You Can’t Change Crazy (August 2011)
(Coming fall 2011, When Horses Had Wings—a novel)
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