Sunday, February 19, 2012


A friend recently posted on Facebook about farting, or rather,
the odoriferous vapors emanating from the general direction of her husband
after a meal of bean soup.
Shortly after that, we had a get-together at her house,
whereupon she was presented with a gas mask & a bottle of Beano.

Got me to thinking. BS has no problem whatsoever about... uh... releasing the pressure, so to speak.
And the silence of the valve opening (sometimes) is remarkable.
Suddenly, I am surrounded by a cloud of his digestive processes that seemed to come out of nowhere.
He is particularly fond of doing this when we are in the car and the windows are closed.
This is followed either by looks of complete innocence or a maniacal laugh,
depending on his whim.
I have actually had to pull over to the side of the road until the miasma cleared.

What is it about men and their misplaced pride in their bodily emanations?
Just don't get it.
"Dude, I let one rip that was so bad it killed the hamster."
"Man, that's nuthin'. I took a dump that looked just like a dachshund. Shoulda sold it on eBay."

My beloved sister (not sayin' which one) is particularly fond of letting one go when we are out together,
then looking at me with horror & shame,
letting anyone around us know, in no uncertain terms,
that I was the one with no social graces whatsoever.

Me? I have never been able to be so free with the after-effects of my digestion.
No one will like me anymore.
Seriously, this is what the demons whisper in my ear.
So, I suffer until I can get to a place where such things are permissible,
like my own bathroom,
or the great outdoors,
where there is sufficient space between me and any other humanity.
Until then, the pressure builds, sometimes with visible & painful swelling....

During all those years when I was living alone and had the whole house to myself,
this was not a problem.
I could toot away to my heart's content and no one would think I was gross. Or human.

Now, however, M&M is in close proximity,
and we have developed an ease & comfort level between us
that allows me to let him see me with dirty hair and no makeup.
Oh, believe me, that's a big deal, let me tell you.
But smelly gasses?
Umm, well, no.
It's a small house & he is usually within smelling distance.
I just. can't. do. it.
Don't know if I will ever be comfortable enough around him to make him aware that
my intestines work just like everyone else's.

Here's a handy guide to let you know when to reveal your bodily functions in front of your man:

Monday, February 13, 2012


Last year, because I was lazy, I just reposted my Valentine's Day post from the year before.
Here it is.

I was not very complimentary to Cupid, the annoying little fart.

So, regarding my disdain for the chubby, arrow-wielding, diaper-clad brat,
look at the picture below.

I have to again eat my words.
Not all of them, mind you.
Just a couple, but this time they will be dipped in chocolate to make them taste a little better,
although I still have to hold on to my previously uttered opinion that when you are alone,
Valentine's Day brings nothing but a little sadness, a little envy, a little wishful thinking.
And, for me, now it brings sympathy, because I remember those days.

I still maintain my opinion that Valentine's Day is for sweethearts.
Not for parents,
Not for children.
Not for teachers,
Not for classmates.
Not for bosses, siblings, cousins, or BFFs.

Besides, we don't really even know who we are honoring today.
There are a bunch of early Christian martyrs named "Valentine",
none of whom had anything to do with lovey-dovey,
and no one knows which one got the day named after him.

M&M is under orders NOT to get me any chocolate.
(I'm fat enough.)
No roses.
(They just wither & die.)

Hmmm, I wonder if he knows women don't really mean it when they say
"You don't have to get me anything."

(Just kidding, dear.)

We will go to Carrabba's for lasagna.
I will drink sangria like it's punch.
I will look in wonder at his lovely face
and wonder anew how I got so lucky.
I will make him brownies with drizzle.
And a good time will be had by all.

So, to those for whom Valentine's Day is still a day to be endured with false cheer,
please feel free to use this, with my best wishes...

Sunday, February 5, 2012


On second thought, it's not really channeling. That implies a willing participation on my part. An invitation for her to live in my brain.

Au contraire, mes amis.

She invaded me. She is possessing me. She is digging up the memories that my lack of, and indifference to, domestic skills caused me great problems in my past life. The bee-yoch whispers in my ear that I better not let that happen again. So, here I am, after years of living alone, being accountable to only myself, and, after vowing never to do it again, worrying about things like planning meals, keeping the laundry done, cleaning (but not very well). After all, M&M works a whole lot more hours each week than I do, so I should those things, right?

See what I do to myself? These expectations are all self-imposed, self-inflicted. He has assured me many times that he doesn't expect those things. In fact, I get a puzzled look and the question "Why would I expect you to take care of me. I know how to take care of myself." He really is blessedly low maintenance, good-natured, and accommodating. So why don't I pay attention? Why do I sit at my desk wondering what I should fix for dinner? Why do I continue to worry about being the "good little woman"?

HA! Not that I'm any better at it now anyway. I'm thinking that, once I clear out some more STUFF, I might be making a periodic investment in Merry Maids. It's for my health. Really. Decreased stress levels mean a longer life. Right?