Did you like the word “Howdy”? I’m trying it out for a while, just to see if it sticks.
Today my guest poster is Kelly of Good Girls Wear Thongs Kelly is the type of writer that makes you want to be better. Not only does her blog have a fantastic name but she also likes to write about “toots” too. Though Kelly says fart, don’t judge.
I don’t like farts. I know it’s natural. I know they can be funny. I know. I know. I know, all right? I still hate them. Loathe them. And I’m not a princess. I can take a burp with the best of them but farting absolutely disgusts me. So, it would only stand to reason I would choose to marry someone who can wake me from a dead sleep with his casual flatulence. You think I’m lying? He has been known to wake up and startle the dog. Picture a sleeping dog at the end of the bed, then BOOM she’s up on her feet in attack mode. This has happened more than once. It’s like sleeping in a war zone. You never know when you’re gonna be hit.
When I first starting dating Homer, I was shocked at the ease at which anyone in his family passed gas through any orifice. I swore I would teach my kids better manners. The Girl was easy, but it’s hard to police The Boy when his father has no issue with it. Even when I threaten Homer with sexual abstinence, he doesn’t get it…literally. He thinks he should be able to fart and then turn around and have me aroused, because we’re so in love. Really? In real life people need to be turned on to be aroused and I can’t be turned on when a man farts. In my mind Brad Pitt, Ryan Reynolds and George Clooney don`t fart. You never hear a man fart in a movie, soap opera or even a porn. It just doesn’t happen and that’s how I want my world to be…free of flatulence.
Homer is a very handsome man, until he lets one go then expects me to be romantic. He doesn’t get that any intentions I had for sex vanished in his pungent air. The worst part is I think it`s all my fault. When we were dating I tried to be a good down home country girl who “gets” it, who isn’t a priss, who can slug a beer, eat a steak and belch the alphabet.
Sexy, I know.
If there is one thing I can pass on to my son about relationships it’s that women might pretend to be okay with the fun of a fart but really we prefer it if they held it in until their bowels exploded. Farting can be the vapour between victory and defeat.
One time I was on a date with a pretty nice guy. We went to a movie and later were sitting on a porch swing together just like Anne of Green Gables or something.
Then he farted. Loudly. And it was over. I mean he seemed mortified and everything but it couldn’t have been undone. I thought maybe he would try to pretend it didn’t happen or at least try to blame it on something else…the swing, the dog…Anything but own up to it. But he didn’t. He took off like a shot. I mean ran away as fast as he could, like Forest Gump, leaving me there to smell his ass.
I don’t even remember if he ever came back. I remember nothing past the fart, that’s how much his rip affected my psyche. I just blocked him out. He ultimately cock blocked himself.
So now that you know all this about me, imagine how horrified I am to have developed this issue with holding in my gas. One day it just started happening. I can’t control my toots. How does this just start happening? Are there kegals we can do for our ass? It happens without warning and always, it seems when I’m walking. No warning. And just because karma IS a bitch, they don’t sound like normal toots. To be as specific as possible, it sounds like I’m giving birth to ducks.
No lie. The only way to stop it is to completely stop, cross my legs and squat.
The Boy and Homer find this hysterical, as you can imagine.
The other night after dinner I was on my way by them as they were watching something sports related and it happened.
Quack. I stopped and tried to get a hold of myself. No one seemed too noticed so I continued.
The Boy, “Mom, was that you?”
I casually look around, with my legs crossed and distorted, like I don’t know what he’s talking about. It’s all in the way you play it. Deny. Deny. Deny. Then I hauled ass past them as fast as I could go.
Quack Quack Quack Quaaaackkk.
Homer (all casual and vertical with his hands behind his head), “I heard a duck.”
The Boy erupts in laughter.
I try to get up the stairs but the faster I go, the more ducks are born.
“Mom, women don’t fart like that,” The Boy said.
“No,” I hear Homer say, “How do they fart?”
“They go pffft.”
Cue eruption of laughter. I even had to crack a smile. I admit it’s funny and just another example of my ironic life. Here is the woman who tried to banish farting, not only passing gas uncontrollably but sounding like a duck factory. Life loves to make a fool of you.
I really feel sorry for the dog now. Not only is she on edge when she’s sleeping but she’s constantly on the hunt for an invisible duck. Life is cruel.
Kelly Medd lives in Oakville, ON with her two children and her ever supportive husband “Homer.” She is a recovering self-help junkie who relapses on a regular basis. Schooled in the ways of sarcasm she has dedicated her life to “pulling the plug on popular misconception” by outing herself in some very awkward and sometimes embarrassing ways via her blog www.goodgirlswearthongs.com She is an unpublished author (sigh) who desperately needs a new hair style and has a list of useless talents that do not include writing a bio on herself. She can also be followed (or stalked) on Twitter @ggrlswearthongs.