Thanksgiving is by far my favorite holiday. I love food and there's no pressure to buy anyone a stinkin' gift. I hate buying gifts when I feel obligated to do so. This was the first Thanksgiving I've not gone to my aunt's house and I really am an old dog; I'm not much for change and breaking new ground on holidays is not one of my strong points. Rich and I spent this year with his family; first we went to his aunt's house and then after (over)stuffing ourselves and enjoying a bit of conversation, we headed over to his dad's place for round two of our eat-a-thon. It was really an outstanding day. I lucked out with Richards family; they are all excellent, intelligent and fun people to spend time with.
As Thanksgiving is a food oriented day, this tale was predestined to turn into a poop story. My life is very poop-oriented. I was going strong that day, stuffing my belly and throwing caution to the wind! During the evening, however, after our second lovely turkey dinner of the day, I felt a rumblin'. I acted swiftly by excusing myself and darting for the nearest bathroom at hand. Things seemed well enough; the bathroom was a fair distance away from the crowd, the fan rumbled to a start (I love a good, loud bathroom fan) and there was even a convenient Pumpkin Spice room spray on the back of the toilet. I knew I was about to create a massacre, so decided I'd give the room a few good sprays of pumpkin spice scent to mask (or mingle...) with the Parfume de Arse I was about to drop. By "a few good sprays," I mean six sprays.
Now, often with any scented aerosol room spray, it takes a bit for the stuff to really cover an odor. The six sprays seemed standard. That is, until I started choking. My eyes were watering and I got this tickle in my throat that wouldn't quit, so I was hacking it up in the bathroom, trying to finish my business, eyes watering, and I looked over to see my pumpkin spice savior said "concentrated." Welllll, isn't that just rich.
I got up and began scrubbing frantically at my hands, holding my breath as long as my body would allow. I couldn't have been in there for more than a few minutes, but it seemed like time slowed down as my face began to flush red and I gulped in different regions of the bathroom, searching for a place that was not yet penetrated by the overwhelming pumpkin-shit-spice scent.
Finally, I dried my hands and got the hell outta there, leaving the door cracked and hoping against hope that no lonely child would wander in there trying to take a leak and discover himself choking, causing a surge of adults to accompany him and speculate about who the culprit might be, thus forever branding me the pumpkin-shit-spice bandit of Thanksgiving 2009.