vituperation

I woke Sunday morning with the slight dread one has when he faces a day full of activities with family. Not that I have anything against family, it’s just that Christmas Eve is always hectic with us. Early in the morning I have to start the cake to be served after dinner, then we all pack up and go to my mom’s for breakfast and gifts. After that it’s back home for a couple of hours to finish the cake, then off to dad’s for dinner and more gifts. The day is a whirlwind from daybreak till bedtime.

This year’s cake was a new one: caramel cream cake, courtesy of Southern Living. The cake part of the cake was similar to a coconut cake I’ve made several times that’s simply awesome, so I expected it to be good. Between the layers would be pecan pie filling, and the whole thing covered with cream cheese icing, coconut, and toasted pecans.

It sounded perfect.

When I finished the batter and had the three layers baking in the oven, I did my normal taste test with the bowl scrapings. Excellent. A little strange, though…the single bite of batter made me feel stuffed, like I sometimes did by the end of a junk food Friday after a day of doughnuts and other trashy foods. I thought nothing of it and turned to making the pecan pie filling, which needed to chill for four hours before being spread between the layers of cake.

I wasn’t so sure about it — the recipe called for dark corn syrup and half-and-half. I don’t know how many of you are pecan pie makers, but real pecan pie filling has neither of those ingredients. I don’t know, maybe those are what make up the “caramel” part of “caramel cream cake”. But damnit, they shouldn’t call it pecan pie filling when it isn’t.

Sure enough, the filling tasted horrible to me, like milky molasses. Molasses is one of a handful of foods that repulse me to the center of my being. I knew I’d be skipping dessert that night, and hoped everyone would forgive me for bringing such a travesty to Christmas dinner. I have a reputation to maintain, you know.

Strangely, the half-spoonful of filling made me fill even fuller, almost to the point of pain. I was slurping my way through a pot of coffee at the same time, though, and attributed my fullness to that.

The time at mom’s was fun, until we ate. I just wasn’t hungry. I should’ve been hungry. Dinner the night before (a burger and fries at a new restaurant, a bribe for getting Robyn to go home and fetch the hammer drill for me when the cordless ran out of power driving 4-inch screws into the shed posts) had been at five, and other than the batter and filling I’d eaten nothing for about eighteen hours. I gave up even trying to eat about halfway through the meal and got up from the table. I stood the rest of the time we were there, feeling more and more bloated as each minute passed. The room felt oppressively hot, and I could barely keep my eyes open. I had to keep going outside to cool off and wake up.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of discomfort, I nudged Robyn and gestured at the door. We left, taking with us some leftovers.

“Holy shit, my stomach hurts,” I said as soon as we were in the car. Then I reconsidered. “Well, not like a stomachache, but like I’ve eaten too much. I feel like I’m about to explode.”

At home, I laid down for a bit and tried to sleep, but couldn’t. I was too uncomfortable. I thought long and hard about whether or not I should go to my dad’s, and discussed it with Robyn, but ultimately decided to go because I’d already had to call and tell him the spud wouldn’t be there because she was working. Neurotic that I am, I thought it would look like we were just begging out because we didn’t feel like coming. I’m not known for being sociable, you know.

I took a long bath, working my dookie puzzles and reading, but never could get the water hot enough. When I got out, I started shaking uncontrollably and dressed in a sweatsuit and thick socks. I checked my temperature. 99.4, but that could easily be explained by the hour in the tub. I debated calling my dad again, and again postponed it.

My temperature climbed up to 100. I was alternately hot and cold, and still felt like I was about to explode. And then at 2:30, I did, from both ends. The quantity of excreta and vomitus I produced was prodigious. And yet, when it was all over, I felt just as full, just as bloated, as before.

I realized I was actually sick (a rarity, knock on wood) and called my dad to tell him. I called my sister to see if she would at least come get the cake so dinner wouldn’t be dessert-less, but she begged off, having had something similar just after Thanksgiving.

Sunday night was a blur of explosive expulsions, of festooning the toilet with rainbow sprays of fluid from both ends. My temperature capped out at just over 101, and I stayed nauseated. The one saving thing is that the spud had some phenergan from a bout with something similar from a couple of weeks ago, and taking one stopped the nausea. Whatever I had — I suspect a norovirus — mostly ran its course throughout Sunday night.

I awoke Christmas morning feeling like I’d been kicked by a horse. I could barely keep my eyes open, I was so tired. My temperature was back to almost normal, and I wasn’t dashing to the bathroom nearly as much. I dozed on the couch during gift opening, and after Robyn left for Pigeon Forge to visit the in-laws I spent the afternoon napping. Over the course of the day I managed to eat a couple of cans of chicken noodle soup (except the broth, which was WAY salty) and a sleeve of saltines (also damn salty, because I haven’t had them in so long). I had a small glass of milk in the early evening.

I’m not sure if it was the milk or not, as I’m not one normally given to lactose intolerance, but I had the most phenomenal gas last night I think I’ve ever had. I spent the evening on the couch, feet extended on the recliner with Mister Boogers laying between my knees. Every few minutes I’d rip one and he would perk up and look around.

“What was that, Mister Boogers? What was that?” I would ask in my kitty voice.

He never answered.

All night long in bed I kept the sheets flapping. I did a lot of tossing and turning because there was so much gas it was almost painful. But still enjoyable. I even worked out this morning, choosing a 2.5-mile walk through the neighborhood with Dean Koontz’s From the Corner of His Eye. There was a bit of discomfort during the walk, as I try to refrain from farting during walks because I worry that someone might be behind me.

For the first time in two days, I felt actual hunger instead of bloat. I spent the time getting ready for work alternately rumbling in my stomach and rumbling out my ass. I farted my way to work, joyous in the lack of traffic.

I have a strange relationship with one of my co-workers. We’ve been good friends for about fifteen years now, and when we’re together we act like twelve-year-olds. From simulating sex with one another to running around the office giving each other piggyback rides, we’re the office juveniles. The only saving grace about it all is that he’s over 50, whereas I’m not even 40.

That, of course, makes him more infantile than me.

As I came through the door, I realized I’d be able to deliver the perfect Christmas present for my co-worker, one that only he could truly appreciate. He wouldn’t appreciate it as much as me, being the recipient and all, but once the fumes cleared he could appreciate the grandiosity of it all.

“Was Santa good to you?” I asked, standing in his office door.

“Pretty good. You?”

“So-so. I have a gift for you.”

With that, I struck a pose, squatted a bit for better resonance, and let it rip.

What came out of me then wasn’t fart. It was remnant.

I can only imagine what it all looked like from my co-worker’s point of view: Fred, spreading his arms dramatically, straining like Samson to push down the pillars, then screaming and running for the bathroom, one hand clutching desperately at his ass.

Judging by his laugh, he enjoyed the gift.