The Methodists are trying to kill me.
It all started out well enough. The fair is in town, so we took out a second mortgage, loaded up the kids, and spent a good part of the day with 8 million of the great unwashed.
The girls are content with just a few rides each, and then we were able to enjoy my favorite part of the fair - the exhibits. This years' theme was "Everyone's a Hero", and boy - do they mean everyone.
The animals are always a hit with the kids. There was a camel with the saddest humps you've ever seen and the Husband, Mr. Funny Guy, says "I see she's breastfed three kids, too."
Ha. Ha. Ha.
But. About the Methodists.
Fair food is delicious, but it's also a terrific rip-off. But there is an area where local churches, policemen, firefighters, and civic organizations sell basic food for a decent price. We got the kids their $100 corn dogs and then, in an effort to be frugal, I opted to hit the firefighter's booth. Plus, you know, cute firefighters.
I'm standing in line for the firefighter's hot dogs and they are taking for.freaking.ever. and I look over and notice the Methodist church booth. There is no one in line, their hot dog deal is a buck cheaper, and the old couple behind the counter appears to be looking at me and smiling.
Now, I like the Methodists. They are not pushy and aren't always walking around asking me if I'm saved, or giving me shit for being a cannibal because Catholics eat Jesus. Methodists are reasonable.
So I give up on the firefighters and walk over to the Methodists' booth (where they also offer a kids' meal! With PB&J! For like $4!) and place my order. They have it to me less than five minutes later - hot dogs loaded up with chili and onions and mustard and slaw, and a kids' meal, all for less than $10. At this point, I am considering converting. I am so pleased that I ignore the marginally suspect chili on the dogs and scarf them down.
The Methodist Chili.
We finish the afternoon at the fair and go home, happy and full up on fair-ness. While I'm pretty tired, I decide to run out to the grocery store to do our shopping for the week. Alone, which is a treat.
I'm about halfway through the shopping, still high on the fair and even the Methodist Chili. So much so that I've put a pack of hot dogs in the cart to have later in the week. So much so that when the first rumblings begin, I'm not the least bit concerned.
Gas. It's to be expected.
But somewhere around the bread aisle, the rumbling makes it clear that this is no ordinary gas, that this is not simply gas, that this is - indeed - a problem. Now, if you know me well enough to be familiar with my bowel habits, you know that I am not a public pooper. My system completely shuts down when I am away from home, to the extent that it often takes up to five days on vacation for my sphincter to loosen up enough to let anything happen.
If you consider the last paragraph to be too much information, you may want to stop reading right here.
I am not jazzed at the prospect of using the toilet at the grocery store, but my gut has made it clear that I have two options - run like hell out of the store and maybe, maybe, make it home; or go to the back of the store and use their restroom and pray that no one comes in. I choose the latter.
I text the Husband from the bathroom.
OMG so sick grocery store METHODIST CHILI
He doesn't text back.
I manage to pull myself together enough to feel like I can finish my shopping. For about ten minutes, and then I'm right back in the bathroom. This time, I don't even bother to text him, but I do have the phone ready - just in case. I am feeling hot and flushed and a little light headed and I am absolutely terrified I am going to pass out. So I type the text, but don't hit send.
COME GET ME IN BATHROOM PASSED OUT DON'T LET ANYONE IN, ESPECIALLY METHODISTS.
I figure I can hit the send button as I fall to the floor.
But I don't pass out, and I am able once again, through sheer will and strength of character, to regain my composure and finish the shopping. I can hear my voice quivering as I answer "Paper or plastic?", and my hands shake when I hand over my coupons. I load the car and get in, and I am little concerned that something will happen on the quarter mile drive home. To be on the safe side, I scribble a note ("Look at the Methodists!") and put it in my pocket. That way, when they find me dead, they will know where to start the investigation.
By some miracle (perpetrated by a Catholic God, no doubt) I make it home. I walk in the back door, my eyes filled with tears, my heart beating fast, and look at the Husband sitting blithely on the couch.
"Didn't you get my text?"
He looked at me dumbly, then picked up his phone and read the text. Surely he would jump up and run to me, maybe even pick me up and lay me on the bed, where he would administer immodium and cool cloths. But no. Instead, he turns to me and says -
"What do you have against Methodists?"
2 weeks ago