Saturday, September 8, 2012

Cracker Barrel with a Side of Victoria's Secret

Anybody that knows me, knows that I am me. I am uncouth and unfiltered. That being said, I have a story from my past that I feel is too good not to share. 

Go back approximately five, maybe six years ago. Chris and I technically still in the newly wed phase (less than five years of marital bliss). Chris decided he wanted to learn to scuba dive. Cool. Sister was out, sister has the ears from hell and blew an eardrum attempting to scuba in a mere five feet of water. After getting my hand slapped by my ENT, I decided scuba diving wasn't for me. In an attempt to be a supportive wifey, I followed my boo to Arkansas, lake Ouachita to be specific, for his test dives. This was pre GPS age, or at least us poor newly weds couldn't afford it. Our directions, straight from MapQuest. Yeah. Needless to say, we got lost going down there. MapQuest invents roads that don't even exist. Chris and I are not good travel partners, the end result usually ends in threats of divorce. Luckily, we made it to our destination without contacting divorce attorneys. Chris did his dives and I went shopping. Both happy campers. Chris made some new friends while there. Friends that said they knew a quicker way back to Shreveport. SCORE! So we decided we would follow them back to the homeland, but not before a lunch at none other than Cracker Barrel. My choice of lunch: Chicken and Dumplings. My all time favorite southern treat. Mistake, bad bad bad mistake. About fifteen minutes after leaving the Crack Barrel I felt the first rumble below. Anybody that has visited Arkansas knows there is NO, I repeat, NO place to pit stop. No gas stations. No fast food restaurants. NOTHING. Enter stage left, another rumble. Decisions. Decisions. Call these newfound friends (who are driving 85, obviously in a hurry) and explain to them that I need to go crap in the woods and could they please pull over, crap my pants, or option C. I'm too shy for the first (unbelievable right?). Option two definitely not happening. There's just something so wrong about wearing your poo. All that's left is option C. Let me lay option C out for you- climb in the back of my brand new Lexus and crap in the Victoria's Secret bag that held all my new purchases. Genius. As I hovered over the bag, not allowing Chris to roll down the windows- the last thing I needed to worry about was hair flying in my face, Chris was yelling "This is (insert cuss word of your choosing) gross." He repeated himself about ten times. I got the point, but my options were limited, and with process of elimination this was the best I could come up with. Needless to say, as soon as I was done Chris rolled the windows down, which is where the bag went- out the window. My Victoria's Secret bag of poo was left on the side of the road for some poor inmate to pick up. Classy Brandi. I traveled comfortably the rest of the trip. Moral of the story, always have a back up plan for on the road "emergencies." Mine was Victoria's Secret.

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