I am a delicate flower

My son has had a lot of gas lately. He farts. It’s kind of gross, and kind of funny. He’s farted on his Daddy’s lap, into my hand when I’m changing him, while he’s walking around.

He comes by it honestly. I’m a champion farter myself. I get a lot of gas when I’m at work, inexplicably. I would say that I don’t have any control over it, but I only seem to fart in the common areas and in the sections of servers I don’t like. Never at my own tables. It’s gotten to be so commonplace that I don’t even notice after a while. This completely grosses out my husband, whose asshole is so tightly controlled that he never audibly emits the smallest peep. Mine are sometimes silent but more often they are loud. Not very ladylike, but there you go.

Why the hell am I writing about this? Well, it’s because I was just checking my email and I became convinced that Shelby (our puppy) had done her business in the house again. I was sitting at the computer and *sniff*.

“Goddammit, Shelby!” The hunt was on – I searched the house for the verboten pile of crap that Shelby leaves on the floor on an all too regular basis. I checked the living room, the bedrooms, the hallway. No poop – so I did it again. The dog followed me around, looking confused.

Damn right she was confused. I eventually realized that the smell was actually a stray fart I had let out without really being aware of it.

Beano does nothing. It’s like a disability, except there’s no special tag for your car.

~ by floozy1976 on June 16, 2008.