Originally Posted March 11, 2012
Donny, my husband, speaks French. We were both brought up in Quebec so we learned it in school and he has kept his up. About 15 years ago he took some Mandarin classes and practiced with tapes while wearing headphones. He would repeat the sounds over and over with varying inflections while the cat sat nearby and just stared at him. For the last year or so he has been taking Spanish lessons.
He has probably had 25 hour long lessons and is doing very well. Or so I thought, until our recent trip to Mexico.
We arrived on a Wednesday morning and Donny courageously began making conversation with the nice folks in Manzanillo. He was modest about it all and has enough vocabulary to make light of his own grammatical missteps. The locals were kind to him, appreciated his attempts to converse in their language and helped him along, exclaiming “perfecto” when he nailed it.
On the Friday morning I awoke with a gurgling stomach. Donny - aka Senor Perfecto - said: No worries, I'll go into town and get you something for that.
He came home with pills and I took one but by the afternoon I had not enjoyed any improvement so I took another. I had a sketchy rest-of-the-day which was better spent closer to the facilities than to the ocean. I slept a good portion of Friday night ON the commode awakened by frequent and raucous explosions. I decided, against better judgement, that one more pill might be the magic bullet.
Bullet was the operative word, the events that ensued were no less speedy than the proverbial projectile through a gun barrel. Saturday I made the mistake of thinking I could manage a quick visit to the weekly mercado. I had to make a hasty, buttock-clenched exit back to the hotel.
When we got back I asked Mr. Bilingual to get out his phrase book so we could translate the pill pack. I heard an "Uh oh" from the other room and my fears were confirmed. I had been on a steady diet of laxatives.
I can't begin to imagine the combination of Spanglish and pantomime Donny employed to convince a Mexican pharmacist that a vacationing gringo had somehow become constipated, of all things.
He went down to the store in the hotel to get Imodium priced to offend every frugal Scottish principal by which he abides. I am sure he considered running into town to save a few pesos but realized that extra money is of little use to the dead and that was what he'd be if he didn't get back to the room fast.
I took one Imodium and the battle began. One clogger pill against three flusher pills set the stage for an intestinal war that threw me me into a cold sweat doubled over with cramps I prayed would deliver salvation, or twins, anything so long as it was the end.
"Are you coming on the sunset cruise?" Donny asked. Honestly, sometimes...
By the time he and the kids got back at 10:00 pm I was feeling much better but not until I had at one point tried to call my bank to cash in my RRSP's and hire a private jet to take me home.
His punchline: She thinks it was all an accident.
My advice: Give your kids an opportunity to learn a second language. They say it staves off Alzheimer’s and if nothing else, they will be able to ask for the right medication (or hire a hit man) while they are on vacation.
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