For the baby's christening, I shed my sweatpants and horse-harnessed myself in suitable clothes - one of the mom's dresses - and make-up. The christening guests included the country's leading medical professionals, politicians, and lawyers.
Ninety-nine percent of the guest list owned vacation homes and boats. My ninety-year-old eyesight can't distinguish between Target and Louis Vuitton, but I overheard words like Armani and Gucci as much as I had to sprint after young children screaming, "Noooo!" There were forty kids. New Zealand's elite spawn sociable,
pleasant little muffins. Put them in a forty-kid mob, and they devour my sanity.
Wiping faces, cuddling crying four-year-olds, requesting ice cream from the caterers, locating soccer balls, overseeing face-painting, and standing in Violet the Clown's balloon animal line for young children who lost interest in the line after six minutes equated no bathroom break for me.
I tried to Merlin-relocate myself to the bathroom after I organized a twenty-kid soccer game. I was halfway up the grass-covered backyard hill when shouts, screams, and cries violated my eardrums. The ball was over the fence. Excreta clustered like a church congregation. I attempted a covert toilet retreat when the parents toasted the baby and its life. They mentioned my name in the salutation. I righted myself from dodge-the-aristocrats to smile and wave. Fecal matter blistered my rectum.
I put on a movie for the kids and endeavored subtle maneuvers towards the toilet under the guise of getting plates of food. When the grandma advanced towards me with a request to find her husband, I replied that I was compiling plates for the parents. Grandma told me that the caterers assembled their plates.
When the parents delivered a second address to the crowd thanking everyone for coming, shit fumes leaked from my butt. I strained for a cushioned fart, a concealed anal salute. However, what exuded from my pooper was a beer stutter fart. I looked around, smiling. The thirty refined individuals outlining me were too polite to glance over or comment. But, the two-year-old's height coincided with my ass, so he screamed, "Kara, you just farted!" People in Liberia heard.
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