Once upon a time there were these newlyweds, shrimp po’boys, and a swamp…

December 1, 2009 - 16 Comments by Mishi - Me, Myself, and I

“We wanted to thank you for coming and sharing in our special day,” I muttered up on the stage, a little after midnight, “but we have to go now. We’ve got a flight to catch very early this morning.”

Everyone laughed and hissed. I even heard some oh sures and yeah rights.  We really did, though.  We had an early flight to catch to New Orleans.  We’d planned to have half of our Honeymoon in the French Quarter and the other half out at Michael’s parents’ house.  We knew we’d probably not see them for a while, so we decided to take the opportunity.  Plus, we’d be able to take a swamp tour and do other stuff like that.

We got off the stage and proceeded to the rented Lincoln Townecar.  My father said he’d take us home to our apartment.  We still had to open envelopes, count our monetary gifts, and decide how much we were going to take with us.  For a moment we were going to make love on top of all the cash like Demi Moore and Woody Harrelson did in “Indecent Proposal”, but we were too tired to even consummate our marriage.  It wasn’t like we hadn’t pre-consummated it, though, many times over, daily, nightly, in tents, in gazebos, at my work, in a computer lab, in my parents pool.  There were many times and many places.   We were good until New Orleans.

The time we spent in the Quarter was awesome. We drank a lot, ate a lot, had a lot of consummations-of-marriage, and just enjoyed all of our days there.  There was only so much to do, so we were happy to get in the rental car and head over Lake Pontchartrain to Michael’s parent’s house.

******

One morning, towards the end of our stay, we decided that we would go to this little place called Raggs for the best po’boys around.  I was excited as I’d heard so much about this place.  We’d also planned to take our swamp tour that afternoon.   We’d eat lunch first and then go to the tour.  Michael, always being prompt, made sure we had enough time to get to the sandwich shop, eat, and then drive out to the swamp tour.

Lunch, as I can recall, was fantastic!  The fried shrimp were remarkable, the french bread was toasted to perfection and the mix of hot sauce and mayonnaise was delectable. Po’boys are one of my favorite foods because of this experience, but I digress.

After eating we set off.

Unfortunately, on the way, we encountered a traffic accident.  It happened right in front of us and Michael quickly ran up to make sure that everyone was okay.  Then we had to hang around for the police report since we were witnesses. We were sure that our swamp tour would leave without us.  Then, finally, we were able to set off.  We made it to the pontoon with only a minute to spare.

The swamp tour was a lot of fun, and the guide was informative while retaining his sense of swamp humor.  We even got to see some  gators.  It was a perfect ending to our honeymoon.  We were out, in nature, enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells of the wetland.  After all was said and done we talked with the guide and other tourists some more, and then we were on our way again.

On the long ride home is when IT happened; something that I shouldn’t even be speaking or typing about, really. It’s probably the single most unpropitious event in the ‘History of Me’.  It’s one thing that, if I die first, Michael will recall in my eulogy.

There was a gurgle.

I began to sweat.

My bowels started to clench.

I could feel the proverbial turtle peaking out of the shell.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore, and cried out, “Michael!  You. Have. To. Stop. Somewhere!”

“What’s wrong?” he asked camly.

“I have to poop,” I groaned.

“Seriously?  Right now?  Why didn’t you go at the tour place?”  he questioned.

“Because I didn’t have to,” I retorted.

“Come on, Mishelle!  There’s no place to stop.  If you haven’t noticed, we’re in a fucking swamp!”  he chuckled through his words.

I’ll never forget the look on his face.  It made me so mad.  I had to evacuate my bowels and all he could do was look at me with shit-eating comical grin?  I was about to shit my pants and all he could do was question why I didn’t do it at the tour place?

This was grounds for divorce.  It had to be grounds for divorce!

“STOP THE FUCKING CAR!” I screamed.

He pulled over with diligence.

I scanned the backseat, spotted and picked up a random towel, opened the door, and in one huge leap I was down in the swamp ditch with my jean shorts around my ankles, relieving myself.  I didn’t care that I could be attacked by a gator.  I didn’t care that there could be any poisonous plants.  I didn’t care that a snake might bite me.  I just didn’t care about anything, other than pooping, at that very moment.  I dumped, I wiped, and I left the nasty towel.  Then wiped my brow and my upper lip, both of which were drenched with sweat, with the back of my hand.  When I looked at Michael, once I got back into the car, I saw this look of sheer and utter amusement on his face.

“Shut!  Up!   And, I swear-to-God-in-heave-above, Michael, if you tell anyone–ANYONE–about this, I will divorce you,” I confidently quipped.

We drove back to the house in silence.  He’d try to joke about it and I stopped him with a direct, “Shut the fuck up!”

I did manage to remind him, rather threaten, to not recant the story.  I was dead serious. I didn’t want anyone hearing this humiliating tale.  Doing what I did, in front of my new husband, was bad enough.  If anyone knew I’d surely be forced into living the rest of my days as a hermit free to shit in ditches, underpasses, or where ever.

We got into the house and heard rustling in his parents’ bedroom.  His mom was home from work early.  She had a massive headache, but still had a pile of work, so she’d taken the afternoon to work from home, from bed.  We sat with her, in her room, and told her about the eventful day we’d had.  I looked at Michael a few times with a stern look in my eye, reminding him of my threat, and I was sure that he was scared straight.

“Well, Mom, we’re gonna go get changed and lie down for a few,” Michael stated.

We kissed her on the cheek and proceeded to leave the room.

“Oh, but Mom, really quick,” he said, “Guess what Mishelle did today?” he asked.

And before she could even reply he said, in what sounded like slow motion to me, “Sssshhhhhheeeeee shhhhhiiiiitttt iiiiiinnnnnn aaaaaaa ddddiiiiitttttcccccchhhhhh!”

Oh My God.  He did it.  He told her.  How could he?  I quickly punched his arm and felt my face grow red.

My mother-in-law giggled a little and said in her southern drawl, “That’s awl right, gurl. I shit in a ditch, too, when I was on my honeymoon with Mr. Mike.”

Luckily for her son–my new husband–she made me feel better about my misadventure by telling me her little story. When we got to our room I warned him that telling Mom was enough. No more souls would know this sordid saga.

******

Our honeymoon was over and my parents were picking us up from the airport. We had waited a while for them to get us because our flight came in just as a Buffalo Bill’s game had let out, and there was crazy traffic on the interstate. Finally, they got there and we loaded our bags into their trunk.  We piled into the back seat of their silver Cadillac.

“How was it?” my father asked.

Michael quickly said, “It was so much fun!  And, guess what?  Mishelle shit in a ditch!”

Laughter filled the car.

Except for me.

I sat in disbelief.

“It’s ok, Mishi,” my mom said, “I shit in a ditch, in Germany, after I married your father!”

A peace filled me as I leaned back in my seat and smiled.  I’d made family history, and some day my daughter and daughters-in-law will make family history, too.  Michael’s extremely fortunate that both of our mothers shared this knowledge with me, or I’d probably be telling you a story about me and some guy named Tim, Jim, Bob or John.

Shit happens!

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This is a re-post as part of the Over Achiever Challenge: The Beta Version through a new group of bloggers that are looking to get back to their writing roots. It’s called {W}rite of Passage and it is the brainchild of Mrs. Flinger.   Look for more writings via {W}rite of Passage.   And if you are so inclined, come and join in!