Call the Fire Department

I hate Indian food.  There.  I said it.

The first time I had it was about 11 years ago in Spokane while visiting my sissy.  Afterwards, my intestines were flamethrowers.  I vowed never to eat Indian food again.

My friend had a birthday recently and a few of us decided to go out to lunch to celebrate.  We had agreed on Thai food – which I love - but the restaurant was suspiciously closed.  At the last minute, she chose an Indian place as a backup.  I ignored the urge to grab her by the neck and shake her vigorously while screaming, “Are you crazy?!  Do you like pooping fire?!”  Instead I muttered an insincere, “Sounds great!”  Then I wondered why I’m friends with people who like Indian food.

At the restaurant I scanned the menu for the foods least likely to commit arson on my guts.  I went with the Tandoori chicken.  Seemed innocuous.  As I ate my meal I sternly looked at each forkful of food and telepathically yelled, “You’d better not ignite an inferno in my innards you stupid Tandoori chicken!”

Fast forward to after an appropriate amount of digestion time had elapsed, and our little family trekked to the dollar store to pick up some very important Chinese imports.  In the car I could feel my guts starting to tangle around themselves.  I could feel the smoldering embers waiting to burst into flames.  I felt like someone was wringing my intestines out like a wet rag.  I told Michael to drive faster to the dollar store.

When we arrived I burst through the doors and calmly winced, “Do you have a bathroom?”  The cashier turned to me and said in slow motion in a voice that sounded like a cassette player with weak batteries, “It’s out of order.”  I panicked, saw myself launching my payload right there in the middle of Dollar Tree, almost started to cry, then decided my only choice was to bust across the parking lot to Fred Meyer as fast as Myke’s car would take me.

“Gimme the keys!” I shouted and sprinted back to the car, leaving my family at the dollar store to fend for themselves.  As I tried to exit the Dollar Tree lot, a steady stream of cars rolled into Fred Meyer and forced me to sit and wait – forced me to sit and wait while my belly turned into a quivering, snarling, white-hot ball of intestinal terror.

Once in the Fred Meyer lot, my dad’s obsessive need to park the car in a spot where the car doors won’t get dinged took over, and I kept sailing by open spots until I finally screamed at myself, “Booney!  Just park the car you idiot!  YOU ARE GOING TO POOP YOUR PANTS!”

I hopped out and went speed-walking into the store, resisting the urge to hold my backside with my hand in an attempt to suppress the volcano.  Have you ever looked at someone who is speed-walking and thought, “Hmm, she looks like she’s about to mess herself.” 

That’s because she is.

I speed-walked and chanted, “Don’t poop your pants, Don’t poop your pants, Don’t poop your pants.”  Thankfully, I didn’t.  Even though the journey to the potty seemed like miles, I successfully made it to the bathroom.  I also avoided eye contact with everyone on the way.  I didn’t want people to know my secret shame – that fireballs were cascading through my digestive tract.  I was ashamed of my inferno.  Also thankfully, all of Fred Meyer’s patrons were shopping at the moment I needed to annihilate the bathroom and I was able to extinguish my fire in solitude. 

Most thankfully of all: I wasn’t wearing button-fly jeans.

I supremely hate Indian food.