She Who Smelt It, Dealt It

"They fart like they breathe." The Husband commented to me one evening, as we listened to the symphony taking place on the couch. Our girls, sprawled out and slack jawed, watching Spongebob and ripping them out.

We are fart connoisseurs in this house. Titans of Tooting. Wizards of Wind. Paragons of Poppery. Even the dog breaks wind at a level that far surpasses normal dog fartery. The baby left no doubt as to his paternity when, at just a few days old, he hiked a leg and let loose the shot heard 'round the newborn nursery.

When we have company over, we exhibit extraordinary sphincter control. But no sooner does the door shut that the Husband says, "And here goes your mom." and sure enough, my rump lets loose with the old hoo-ha, hue and cry. My bowels have a complicated system of shutting down and starting up (I can not poop for the first three days of any trip, I just can't. I might have crossed a line there, and I apologize.) that makes me wonder - if I can subconsciously hold a fart for two hours, is it really that hard to imagine that someone could bend a spoon with their mind? Who knows what amazing powers lie dormant beneath the surface of our minds. ESP! Teleportation! Laser beam eyes! 

My butt may very well hold the key.

I recently conducted a very scientific poll amongst some of my bitches, wherein I posed the following questions:
1. Do you fart in front of your husband?
2. Do you fart in front of your children?
3. Do you fart in front of your friends?

With little exception, the answers were:
1. Yes. (with bonus points to the woman who said that she liked to either karate kick fart, or finger shoot fart)
2. Yes.
3. OH GOOD LORD, NO! NEVER!

Which perplexes me a little. Women are more than willing to discuss the (very gross) details of menstruation, pregnancy and childbirth. Giving the gory details of labor and delivery is like a contest among women. An older woman I barely know looked me square in the face and told me that if I wanted to conceive a boy, I should douche with vinegar. She said this to me standing in the vestibule at church. You are not supposed to say DOUCHE at church, people! Fuck!

But I guarantee if that woman needed to fart, her ass would be clenched up so tight she could turn coal to diamonds, until she was safely in the confines of her vehicle. There are people out there who rarely (and they will say 'never', liars) cut the cheese. These people should be avoided at all costs, as they are unnatural, untrustworthy, and potentially criminal.

As for us, we don't flaunt our flatus. We are discreet unless at home among our fellow familial farters. And even then, we manage to say 'excuse me'. After the high fives, of course.

Chatty

This may come as a surprise to those of you who don't know me (or maybe not), and it's surely NO surprise to those of you who do - but I talk entirely too much. I talk so much that I rarely leave any gathering without thinking to myself, "I talked entirely too much."

I have an opinion about everything, regardless of whether or not I know anything about it. Genetically modified food? AWFUL. Hiking in the Pyrranes? I don't even know where the Pyrranes are, but I am guessing it is COLD. Pumping gas while talking on a cell phone? ILLEGAL AND CAUSES CANCER. And I'm pretty sure that one can make you blow up, too.

I am the Cliff Claven of suburbia - as big a windbag, but without the encyclopedic knowledge.

The things I do know tend to be a little fuzzy. To my credit, I have read a lot of books. But I've also had three kids and watched too many cooking shows, so Diego Rivera's involvement with Leon Trotsky centers around a lovely boeuf bourguignon. I am generally slightly off the mark with most of the wisdom I impart, so much that I tend to preface everything I say with "Now, I may be talking out of my ass here..." I talk out of my ass so frequently that I had a Bluetooth fitted to my underwear.

Every time I go to a social event, I have a little pep talk with myself:
I will let others talk. I will not try to be super clever. I will not say stuff unless I am certain it's true. I will not drop a bunch of f-bombs. I will ask questions and listen to the answers. 

It never works.

I'm thinking I should come up with a hand signal, or key word, to share with the husband and close friends, so they can let me know when I need to chill. Maybe they rub their nose with one finger. But then I'll think "Are they telling me I'm talking too much? Or that I have a booger?" and I'll get more nervous because I think I have a booger, and then I'll talk more. Talking more, drawing more attention to myself, only now with a GIANT BOOGER hanging out of my nose.

So I apologize in advance for all the times I will talk over you and monopolize a conversation and wax my poetic bullshit on subjects in which I am completely ignorant. Forgive me - and please, interrupt me.