Before Joel’s annual Christmas party, Pie came over for a few rounds of Karaoke Revolution and to counsel me on my wardrobe choices. While I was wrangling my marinated mushroom appetizer, Esteban and Pie ran out to the Man Maul and also the grocery store in search of cooking sherry (for my mushrooms) and puff pastry for the kilo of Brie Esteban had purchased at the warehouse club. I had argued that it would be lovely to serve on its own, or perhaps with a garnish of lingonberries, but Esteban pishposhed that as ‘frou frou’ and chastised me for enjoying brie with fruit. And besides, no one would dare argue the manly merits of PUFF PASTRY. I should be happy that he watches so much Food Network. When I first met the man, he though Taco Bell was ethnic dining. We were pretty sure that we three wise brie-lovers would be the only people to touch it at the party, but we didn’t care, because it was the principle of the thing. Which is exactly why I always dress nicer than normal, because even though I know there will be women wearing kitty sweatshirts, I feel as though I am responsible for raising the bar.
However, other shoppers of our local snooty grocery store also apparently watch Food Network, as there was only an empty spot on the shelf where the puff pastry was supposed to live, so the Brie would be large and in charge in its naked glory. Or, you know, would have been if Esteban hadn’t forgotten it in the refrigerator when we left.
Esteban was dressed in all black, and Pie was wearing a smoking hot red dress with high black boots, so I decided to be the binding thematic agent and wear black pants, my black marabou trimmed camisole and red cashmere sweater. Pie and I had a bit of accidental synchronicity when we, after dressing, realized that we both were wearing white gold three stone necklaces, Pie’s in diamond and mine in whatever they use in the cheap necklaces they sell at Lane Bryant. But my earrings were real, so that brings up my cred somewhat.
The party was a delight. Scotty Boom Boom was officially Pie’s date, although primarily busied himself with deep frying an entire turkey. Pie and I allowed Mark to cater to our every whims, or rather, the whims that were sated with brandy old-fashioneds and peanut butter balls stolen directly from his plate. I explained to Pie how I have become a complete and utter asshole about fashion at this party and usually award the Best Dressed to someone, disqualifying myself and anyone under my immediate bias who, really, are already assumed to be above the rest. I whispered to her that I also had a secret Worst Dressed award that I keep to myself. Although really, often there are four and five way ties for this award. Last year’s Best Dressed awardee was commended this year for taking fashion chances in her long black velvety coat and frilly white blouse. Although, thanks to many of the alcohols, I blurted out that she was dressed a little like Prince in his Purple Rain phase and then started with ‘Dearly Beloved’ we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life.’ I told you that I was sort of an asshole. I just can’t help myself sometimes. Later, however, she took someone to task for their half-hearted attempt at dressing themselves and someone piped up ‘You shouldn’t talk. You’re dressed like Prince!’ I replied, ‘Don’t steal my joke. And you shouldn’t talk, Mister Black Pants, Black Tennis Shoes with White Socks. Tell me, is Billie Jean. Not your Lover?’ And then Pie piped in ‘Or is she just a girl who says that you are the one?’ Thank you, everyone, we’ll be here until Tuesday. Be sure to tip your waiters.
One would think that would teach folks, but then Billie Jean’s wife used the opportunity to make fun of her husband, all the while wearing a dressy quilted top thing, black pants, and BLINDING WHITE PAYLESS ATHLETIC SHOES. I’m still not sure how that worked.
Fashion crimes aside, it was a very nice evening. I got to talk with my favorite couple, whom I never get to see enough (hi Steve) and also Phil and his wife CC, whom I also don’t see enough but always enjoy. Esteban had sort of a miserable evening, missing everything in order to talk a friend down from a virtual ledge, but managed to peek out and grab some food after most of the festivities died down. It was a pretty good way to spend a Saturday night, and the three of us ended up with pretty good White Elephant gifts. Through a side deal with another player, I ended up with the Season Three DVDs of Angel, and Esteban got some Guinness, while Mo got a bottle of Bailey’s and some reproduction deer antlers. What better souvenir of Wisconsin than fake deer antlers?
However, imagine our surprise when, on Monday morning, I bolted out of bed and raced for the bathroom. I decided that it was my body’s way of telling me to not have a dinner comprising solely of black cherries eaten while standing next to the garbage can, so I didn’t think anything of it. Then Esteban likewise bolted out of bed and ran for the bathroom. I made my way into work, feeling mildly ill but forsaking anything other than water and some 7UP, while Esteban sat at home and was wracked with gut cramps and other unmentionable things. A quick e-mail check where I learned that similar things were happening at Camp Pie. I offered to pick up some sick food for her on my lunch, which she readily accepted. Just as I was getting ready to leave, Esteban called and asked me to pick up something for him. I explained that I couldn’t be everywhere at once and wasn’t exactly moving in a sprightly manner myself. He admitted that he was just being picky and didn’t want to eat anything in the pantry, and then decided that he couldn’t eat anything anyway. I ran to the store, picked up some supplies for Pie and some for Esteban, then stopped by Pie’s loft where things were clearly Not Good. I felt sort of guilty for being only mildly gross but tolerable rather than having the horrible puke demon that had apparently possessed everyone around me. As I checked in with the sickies via e-mail, I learned that not only were we all suddenly taken with degrees of the same thing, but it had also affected four other people at the party. Aha. I looked up the symptoms and it was textbook salmonella poisoning, although our amateur CSI has been unable to determine a common thread. The only thing we can figure out is that we all ate the turkey and the peanut butter balls, but since the turkey was probed and the lowest temperature was 185, we don’t think it could have been that. We also suspect that it might have been just a stomach virus that was floating around, since the party was crawling with parents of young children as well as two daycare workers. It doesn’t really matter, but well played, mysterious illness, well played.
I’ve mentioned in the past that I, from time to time, experience vasovagal syncope, usually while laughing. More specifically, usually while laughing at something involving poop, farts or someone pooping instead of farting (the pinnacle of funny). Esteban doesn’t understand this and really, my only explanation is that I was a very serious and austere eight-year-old who fretted about taxes and divorce and alcoholism and also the threat of nuclear war instead of doing things like laughing at stupid things like Hershey squirts so now, at the tender age of 34, I finally have the wherewithal to understand that poop jokes are really very funny. Well, anyway, that excuse sounds really good, so let’s go with that.
Before leaving work for the day, I checked in with Esteban to see if he needed anything else. He grumbled weakly and then said, ‘I think maybe some Adult Diapers would be good.’
I knew he was joking, but started laughing uncontrollably at the idea of going to the store to buy my husband Depends. I knew that I couldn’t stop laughing. Esteban started to moan about how it was going to be when we got older and how he would have to be in a nursing home and his wife would just laugh and laugh at his colorectal problems and then suddenly, the world was getting dim and then grey and then my chin hit my desk.
I came to slowly, in the process of saying something that made no sense. I sat there for a minute, feeling the coolness of the air on my flushed face and then the sound turned back on. I knew what had happened, but realized that I hadn’t ended the call and didn’t know how long I had been out. I said ‘Are you still there?’ I heard Esteban say ‘Yes’ somewhere off in the distance. When my chin hit the desk, the microphone from my headset had pushed the earpiece out. I popped it back in and then had the gradual realization that the last thing I had heard before passing out was the sound of someone farting.
I was pretty sure that the someone in question was me.
So to recap: I farted, probably audibly in a very quiet office, surrounded by coworkers.
‘I think I just fainted.’ I said to Esteban.
‘You did not.’
‘Just now. What did I say?’
‘Nothing. You weren’t making any sense.’
‘I have to go.’ I hung up the phone and looked around. Every cubicle I could see was empty for the night, but someone was definitely working on the other side of the wall. In fact, the sound of several someones working very quietly. The sound of someone trying not to make a sound, to quote John Irving.
I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face and then skulked back to my desk, where I refused to look at anyone until the end of the day, which luckily for me happened after twenty minutes. Then I fled.
A previous incarnation of Weetabix might have then made up an excuse and quit, feeling that finding another job was preferable, but instead, I’ve chosen to pretend that it did not happen. Denial is a wonderful tool.
I told Esteban about the horrifying afternoon when I got home. ‘Karma! That is totally karma!’ he crowed, and then asked if I remembered to bring him some Immodium.
I suppose he’s right. But when I told my sister about it today while walking in from the parking lot, I swear I almost lost control laughing again. And so it comes full circle.
