I had a friend who was begging her Little Turd of a daughter to rub her feet. And then the Little Turd said, "OK. But only the top part. Not the wooden part."
Fast forward to my new life of living in my one room home with my lovely husband his two teenage boys. It's not ideal. If anybody farts the whole house hears it. And smells it too. The place is an open floor plan loft-style home. See what I mean?
(I designed it while I was planning to die alone.)
ANYWAY, Zach has been growing quite a nasty wooden part of his own on his heel all summer from working. He's OBSESSED with it and makes me touch it all the time.
Well: the other night at bedtime Zach and I were getting ready to fall asleep, whispering and snuggling and otherwise falling in love, the usual. He grabbed my hand and made me touch his nasty wooden heel. I laughed and said, too loud, (in baby talk I might add):
"ARE YOU MAKING ME TOUCH THE WOODEN PART AGAIN?"
His face dropped.
I gasped.
We died, while hoping beyond hope the kids were already sleeping.
So I lay in the hospital, in and out of sleep for a day-and-a-half while nurses took care of my every need. Summer brought movies and I slept through them and there was a TV but I could barely hear it plus I was so SLEEPY.
I got to have broth (and fell asleep while eating it) and then they gave me a menu and I could pick whatever I wanted! I wanted macaroni and cheese. I mean there were so many options, it felt very luxurious. In retrospect I'm sure that macaroni and cheese was probably $475 but it was free at the time and that was pretty cool.
They kept telling me to WALK WALK WALK because you gotta get your poop churning so you can leave the hospital. I mentioned earlier that they pumped me up with CO2 and that's really uncomfortable plus my guts had just been all cut up and so I was working really hard on farting-slash-pooping. The more gas I could get out of there, the less pain and more relief I would feel. It became my "job" to fart. So they taught me how to roll to my side and then get out of bed without using any stomach muscles and a nice MA called Pemba or Phema was assigned to take me for a walk but I was scared and so I held his hand and we chooched* all around the corridors of the hospital and it was SO romantic to be holding hands with a man, even though he was quite elderly. It's so rare for me to get to hold hands and I loved it! I was highly embarrassed though when Pemba or Phema put me back into bed and I think he saw my naked butt.
I saw this one jerk and he was choochin' so fast all by himself and I was like, "you think you're SO COOL without your helper and your IV stand" and he was like, "don't worry, you'll get there" (which was a pretty nice thing for him to say, I gotta admit) and he was right! Eventually, I didn't need my helper and then I didn't need my IV stand and then it was me choochin' so fast all by myself.
So. Farting.
One time, the nurse was in my room and I farted really loudly for like 17 seconds. We held eye contact the entire time, me embarrassed but excited, and she a cheerleader looking at me like "keep going! you're amazing!" and I did keep going and then I felt like I had to go number 2 RIGHT NOW and so I scooched to the the edge of the bed and rolled onto one side and slowly got up. I started to walk to the bathroom and looked back to make sure my tubes were all in order and I saw that I had pooped a streak from the center to the edge of the bed.
I wanted to DIE.
The nurse was still in my room! "I pooped the bed", I told her from behind the bathroom door, humiliated.
"IT'S ALREADY GONE. DON'T BE EMBARRASSED."
"OK. thanks. I'm also going to need a new gown."
And that is why nurses are just the nicest people in the entire world.
Miyo, who REFUSED to get in bed with me even though I begged and begged. She preferred to sleep on the RADIATOR than cuddle with me. Little turd.
These two, I did not beg.
*chooch is a Shash-term, which means walk, basically. Go for a chooch. Just choochin', etc.
My surgeons injected my stomach with
a bunch of C02 so they could laproscopically get that appendix out of there (I
guess it makes it easier for them to see things and isolate others). They didn't pop me like a balloon though when they were done, so at the moment I definitely
look pregnant.
Apparently, some of the gas will
re-absorb into my body. But then some of it has to come out (if you know what I
mean). I have been instructed by Medical Professionals that I need to be farting as much as possible.
Anywho, I have decided to embrace my
gassiness. I’m home alone working right now and every time the good lord blesses
me with a nice round trumpet fart, though very painful, I throw up my hands (to
no one) and exclaim, “Doctor’s Orders!”
You can expect this as normal office
behavior from now on.
My brother sent me this text tonight -- a photo of a poem I wrote to him when I was younger:
If you can't read it, here's a transcript:
ODE TO PETE
My love for you Pete
stretches from here to Crete
it will outlast time
and unlike a mime
it proclaims loud and clear
that I hold you so dear
your picture I hold close to my heart
even though in the past in my face you would fart
hold me down on the floor
from your butt the juice would pour
I could not withstand
the force of your hands
holding me down
in your stench I would drown
the air would turn grey
but...I love you anyway
BONUS JOKE:
How do we know Jeffrey Dahmer was a careless smoker?
He left BUTTS behind the couch.*
*#1: The Jeffrey Dahmer reference dates this poem to approximately 1992, or me at 15. #2: I'm so sorry. That joke is terribly insensitive and I would slap my 15-year-old self up if I had a time machine. Who am I kidding? If I had a time machine I would slap my 15-year-old self up for perming my short hair:
I'm back at work. Same company, different job, different branch office. This time, an almost all male office. I was wondering what it might be like to work between all of that testosterone, since historically I've worked in an office with mostly women. I've been fortunate in that there wasn't too much gossip or drama amongst all of those women, but was expecting to see even less of that with these dudes.
Nope.
They gossip all right. A lot. The difference? Dudes don't whisper. They talk about each other and they don't care if the person they are talking about is standing right outside my office! This puts me in a strange position because when you're listening to somebody talk about somebody else it makes you an accomplice to the gossip and I sure don't want to be involved in the loud kind! Don't get me wrong: I love the whispery kind.
Some of the other differences I've noticed:
Fantasy Basketball: Our office has a flatscreen TV that is usually on some financial news updates channel but now it's on basketball. I'm all up in it. Not really. But I did make my picks and it wasn't that hard, guys. You just pick the name of the team based on your enjoyment of the spelling of that team (go Gonzaga!). After the first day, five of my six picks ended up moving up in the bracket. I got a little cocky about that (I couldn't help it) but then my luck seemed to run out. I'm now ranked 22 out of 38 of us. I was really hoping to take it all.
Crying: I got a little teary the other day while listening to a Leonard Cohen song as one is wont to do, and put it on repeat as one is also wont to do and then I had to cut it out because you don't really want dudes to see you crying and right away assume you have your period.
The Gym: Everybody goes. Everybody. It helps that we have a Lifetime Fitness exactly 300 yards away from our office. The other day I had a free personal trainer session, and the man was sticking his fingers in my stomach to touch my spine and I was hoping not to fart and every time I looked up there was another dude from my office doing sit-ups ten feet away.
Lunch: Hardly anybody brings a lunch and they all go out in groups and we have all these great restaurants nearby so on any given day you can go with these guys to that place or those guys to that other place. So far I have just brought my lunch (nerd) but I'm dreaming big.
Fridays: Everybody leaves at 3:00 on Fridays! I haven't yet but that's gonna be fun this summer.
Just one of the guys.
So far I don't think any of my coworkers know that by night I'm a bookie and I also write this dumb blog, so I'll leave my observations there in this sterile and generic place.
I'd like to share a facebook photo comment trail that I happen to find wildly hilarious. Behold: Kasey and I on a family roadtrip out to Yellowstone National Park in 1991.
1991 was a really good hair year.
Kady: Blonde perm and braces. Looks like the breast buds were coming in too...
February 10, 2009 at 11:57pm ·
Kasey: gross! Your breast buds used to be bigger than mine. Notice my Hilary Clinton headband. It had batting in it or something under the navy blue fabric to make it puffy.
February 11, 2009 at 11:45am ·
Kady: why is there gum on my face?
February 11, 2009 at 1:20pm ·
Keri: That hair cut, even when in style never did anything for anyone.
February 11, 2009 at 3:32pm ·
Keri: Look at those two sweeties smiling with arm around eachother, like they never would think of fighting.
February 11, 2009 at 3:33pm ·
Kady: I loved it! It was shaved up the back.
February 11, 2009 at 3:34pm ·
Kasey: I think we were laughing at the fact that I had just taken a crap on the ground in the mountains. The brakes were heating up due to overuse and we had to pull over where there was nothing but wilderness. When you gotta go, you gotta go.
February 11, 2009 at 6:23pm ·
Kady: p.s. Kasey in this photo, the smoke behind you sort of makes it look like you just totally farted.
April 19, 2009 at 11:59pm ·
Kady: Or maybe that was your smoking poo, laying on the ground behind you.
April 20, 2009 at 12:00am ·
Kasey: that's alot of smoke, either that or alot of poo
September 22, 2009 at 2:55pm ·
Jennifer: OMG !! Thanks for the laugh!! I totally miss you guys!! lol
November 3, 2009 at 8:06pm ·
Kasey: Miles, "Mom, look at her and tell me her name shouldn't be Bryce."
20 hours ago ·
Kasey: Yay, I'm a Becky.
20 hours ago·
LaMortimer: You guys are livin the vida loca here
19 hours ago
Anita: Did both of you play Becky in 'Roseanne' at some point?
12 hours ago
LaMortimer: Kasey may have been on fire in this photo
12 hours ago
Kasey: My neck filled in for the role of Becky for two episodes. They were cut.
But my stupid, stupid phone was too full of dumb pictures like this...
Come on. Hilarious.
...and the video cut out. So I'll finish telling the story here.
To review: My mom accidentally passed gas at Menards (to relieve some pressure. There was no sharting.) She sent my dad off to shop in an attempt to scrunch collect herself.
The rest of the story goes something like this:
Once the storm had calmed, they met up again. As they were walking through the aisles near the 'incident', they saw a Menards employee -- on hands and knees -- sniff testing underneath all of the gas grills, presumably to look for a noxious chemical leak because something stunk THAT bad and someone had obviously reported it.
Ol' Hal grabbed my Mom's hand in a valiant act of solidarity and escorted her out of the store, heads held high.
When confronted with a situation where telling the truth will hurt or simply embarrass me, it's what I do. The good news is, my conscience hardly ever allows it to continue and I have to come clean immediately. Which is how I accidentally almost committed fraud against the State of Minnesota a couple of weeks ago.
You see, I got this great idea after filing my taxes and seeing that my adjusted gross income for 2011 was only $4040: I decided to take advantage of any low-income Doctor's visit benefits I could since I haven't had any checkups since I was working with health insurance benefits a few years back. I googled "minnesota sliding scale gynecology" and found Planned Parenthood. I called and explained that I had no health insurance and they told me to bring my last year's tax return. They made me feel at ease when they said most women pay nothing for their checkup.
The next paragraph serves only to set you up for the reason I told a big lie to the State of Minnesota:
In real life, my business is mortgage, where I calculate people's income all day long and I always always always use the most conservative approach. So, if I were applying for a mortgage, I wouldn't use my current income because there is no guarantee that it will continue. In fact, I would need to be on my job for a minimum of six months before I would even be able to consider that income. A two-year average over 2011 and 2010 would give a better picture of my actual income, however since I no longer hold any of those jobs, I would have to use a big. fat. zero. and I wouldn't qualify. Isn't my job interesting? ha!
ANYWAY:
I brought my tax return and my "zero-income mentality" into Planned Parenthood where I was asked straight out, "Are you currently working?"
I didn't expect this question. But I knew where she was going. In that split second, I had a crisis of conscience. Why should I be penalized and miss out on free health care just because I DO currently have a very temporary, very medium-paying job? Don't they know that any money I make in the next three months is going to have to last me for the next twelve? Don't they know I am a vagabond by choice and I don't want to spend my money on Doctors and groceries and car tire repair because I'd rather be padding my savings account for my next great adventure? Don't they know I used to responsible and trustworthy and employed and paid taxes for a good decade which probably covered hundreds of exams for the less fortunate?
What did I do? I froze. I panicked. I lied.
FPL!
"NO!" I said, nervously, shaking. As the word escaped my mouth, I immediately felt my cheeks flush. Lying is bad! And of course it just snowballed from there as she made me FILL OUT A FORM stating that I had $0 income. I tried to make it better by averaging $4040 over 12 months which is exactly how I would have calculated my income at work. I told myself I wasn't lying, and that I knew better how to calculate income than the State of Minnesota Department of Health. But I also knew I was lying. Making it right would mean coming clean to the receptionist by admitting to her face that I had lied. I couldn't do it. I signed the form with the fraudulent information and went back to the exam room, stripped down, put my legs in the stirrups and talked to my Maker about what I had just done and how I was going to make it right. FYI I'm pretty sure it was He who made me have to fart at the exact moment the Nurse Practitioner was taking her look-see.
"The House of Lies"
With legs spreadeagle, I decided the best way to make the whole thing go away would be to go back out to the front and tell them that although I wasn't working (lie) I had money in savings (true) and that I could afford to pay for the visit (true) so could we just forget the whole form? I certainly wouldn't want to burden the poor taxpayers in Minnesota with my gynecological needs (lie).
So that's what I did.
For the second time the receptionist totally blindsided me by saying, "well if it's all the same to you, we'd rather get the funding because it's better for us. But if you have money and would like to make a donation for somebody else who can't afford it, we'd be glad to accept it."
My jaw dropped to the floor as I left my body, hovered above and watched myself NOT tell her the truth. We continued the check-out process and I hoped she'd forget about the donation bit, but of course she didn't. "Would you like to put your donation on your VISA?"
"Yes." I said, and donated $50. For my penance.
I drove out of the lot and called Summer. She could barely understand me as I wailed, "I'm going to prison!"
She told me not to panic and to call the Department of Health to withdraw my application in a few days, explain myself and then at least I wouldn't have to worry about the face-to-face aspect that made it so impossible for me to just admit the truth.
Which is what I did.
What did this ridiculous lie cost me? $280 for the doctor's visit, $50 for a donation I didn't really care to make, the squeezing to prevent the fart (which I'm hoping she took as timidity), 20 minutes hold time with the Minnesota Department of Health and some further embarrassment when a bill from Planned Parenthood will shortly arrive in the mail at the O'Connell's. Addressed to me.
Cousin Jacqui from Texas came up to visit! You may remember her from such stories as the 'Tuba Tutor'. Her mom (my auntie Betsy) and daughters (Willow- 10, and River-5), and my aunties Julie and Debbie drove up from Hutchinson. Apparently it took 10 hours to get here. The entire way I was getting texts from Jacqui:
Looks like we're heading into a thunderstorm...we might not be there until tomorrow morning.
A kid just passed us on a trike. I was tempted to ask for a ride...
Stopped at a bakery. Stopped at a coffee shop. Stopped at a bead store. Stopped at a gas station.
Finishing up lunch in Walker. I think this is the never ending trip.
Just saw a sign that says Blackduck.
And we just got stopped for 20 minutes for road construction.
We just went through Baudette. Please Lord, let it be over soon.
Just left Williams. Stopped to pick up cereal and ice cream.
Needless to say, Jacqui was happy to finally get here:
The girls went straight to business eating popsicles and finding baby mini frogs in our fire pit.
And then I got straight to business receiving a 6-hands massage. How great is my life?
Why is there a bullet casing on this poor couple's stone? Never mind.
Sunflower patch!
(Check out that face. Now imagine it for the following story. My mom had a lot of kids, so she knows all the tricks, especially for getting rid of them when they're buggin' her, or in the way. She just says very cheerily, "OK, see ya! Love ya! Bye!" Well, River wouldn't fall for it. With the above face and a robot voice, she said, "Me. Not. Leaving.")
Then cousin Corky came over and started telling the most hilarious stories about his colon cancer issues. Apparently he knows exactly how to make his own gastro-tube (gas reliever) out of a piece of surgical tubing, a match, and a knife. He said he got about 5 minutes of fart out of it.
Here's Jacqui and Julie's reaction as Cousin Sheriel said, "oh, and the stink!"
My cousin Jacqui takes an elderly woman named Mrs. Osgood into Austin to have therapy about once a month. She is the properest of propers and would certainly NEVER allow her children to use the word fart.
One week Jacqui had to bring her daughters River and Willow along for the ride. Jacqui jumped out to pump gas, and as she stood beside her car, heard River say, "One time, when we were in Minnesota, my mom farted so loud it sounded like a tuba!" (p.s. I have heard Jacqui fart and 'tuba' is a perfect description.)
Of course, Jacqui laughed hysterically while Mrs. Osgood sat absolutely stone-faced. Later, Jacqui asked Willow why River said that. Willow told Jacqui that she was explaining to Mrs. Osgood about how she was so relieved because she had just passed her standardized testing in math. She had been struggling but Jacqui and Willow prepped and studied and worked very hard and Willow ended up not only passing, but getting a perfect score of 100! Mrs. Osgood said, "your mom must be a very good tutor!"
Willow said, "yah, she's the best!"
Which reminded River of the time in Minnesota when Jacqui "tuted" so loud it sounded LIKE A TUBA.
In Antigua, one night I shared a room with a couple from Denmark, and I had a dream that I farted really loudly and then laughed out loud, so that they would know that I knew...
Then, in San Marcos, I rented a bed in a hostel dorm. The dorm turned out to be a huge gutted house with five twin beds. Three upstairs and two down. I set up camp upstairs, since there was a huge spider in the main floor bedroom. I had one roommate: Grit from Germany. One night the latin polka band was crazy intense and played until after 2am. At about 11:30ish we drifted off in our conversation...when I farted really loud! CRAP. All I could do was laugh out loud so that she would know that I knew that it happened. I heard nothing out of her, so I assumed she was sleeping. The next night at dinner, she said something about how late the music went, and then said, "when you laughed..." so I whispered in her ear that I laughed because I farted, and she said she heard that too. UGH. Turns out the night in Antigua was probably not a dream.
When she checked out I was worried about sleeping in this huge house all by myself, but when I returned to my room after dinner, I noticed that the door to the downstairs room was closed. Phew! I don't like being alone! Except then at about 11:30 I had to go to the bathroom. Of course I had to go number two. On this special toilet in this special concrete-walled bathroom it was, like, incredibly amplified.
And for some reason, this was the noisiest, slowest process I think I've ever experienced. I was hoping and praying that my new roommate was already sleeping and maybe with headphones in. I'll never know because she checked out before I woke up, so YAY! At least I know she'll never know it was me. But if I were her I would have done some investigating to find out who it was. For Reals.
The night after that happened I got REALLY sick and ended up spending the night on the toilet, from both ends. Thank goodness that night I was alone in the house. I spent the following day in bed. I pretty much slept and used the toilet microphone for 37 hours.
You can say I left Guatemala with a bang.
I blame all the beans.
At the Baseball Stadium, the little girl in the red dress accidentally farted, really LOUDLY. Of course I burst out laughing and looked around to see who else thought it was wildly hysterical. As if given permission, they then began laughing too, but more reservedly. I suppose in a situation like that you should probably not laugh, so the little girl wouldn't feel bad, but COME ON, it was SO loud.
I laughed so hard I cried. The situation was just ridiculous. Then I looked at the lady next to me, and said, "el idioma universal".
I really can't believe I haven't blogged this one yet. It comes from 1989 (give or take).
My friend Maija and I were babysitting at a friend's house and we were playing pool after the kids went to bed. I was twelve. Maija was always a lot cooler than me, in many ways, but this story has to do with her ability to fart on command. So she farted, on command, and I was pretty jealous. I decided it couldn't be that hard to do, and started trying to push a fart out. Pushing and pushing and...suddenly I had to RUN to the bathroom.
Up the stairs I ran. Into the bathroom. Whipped down my shorts. Sat down. I thought for sure I had crapped my pants. I looked in my underwear. Nothing. I looked in my shorts. Nothing. I looked everywhere. Nothing. Hmmm. Curious.
But then I saw, on the OUTSIDE of my shorts, a tiny turd.
It's like my fart blew so fast through my underwear and shorts that it didn't have time to solidify until it made it safely outside. I don't know? You tell me.
I went to a party in Southern Minnesota many many many many years ago. I was having a very nice time, thank you very much and so when the evening wound down I took on my usual role. You know, "crazy girl must have the floor talks too much has to get everybody's attention".
Suddenly, in a comedic fit of awesome amazingness, one of my stories lent itself well to the following:
"And here's what I thought of that!"
Which is where I stood up, grabbed my ankles, and let out a HUGE fart. HUGE. Major. Very loud. Disgusting. I would normally explain that I don't normally do that, (promise), but you wouldn't believe me anyways. Of course I got the hysterical laughter I was looking for (think: that scene in Dumb and Dumber where Jim Carrey is dreaming about lighting the fart and everybody laughs and laughs). But that's not the point of the story.
The point of the story is that a couple nights later, some random dude that was there called my house and ASKED ME ON A DATE. Here's how it went down:
Dude: "so I was wondering if you wanted to go to a movie sometime."
Me: "OH. You mean like, on a date?"
Dude: "yah."
Me: "hahahahaHAAAHAAAAHA" (maniacal laughter)
And then, my memory is spotty, so I don't think I said this out loud to him, or maybe I did? But I was totally thinking, "why would you want to go on a date with a girl who farts in public?" And "why is it I only get asked out in situations like that?"
At the Lodge, in addition to my waitressing duties, they have me covering the bar. Recently I have decided to take charge of the darn place. Take for example, last night. One of my customers leaned over right in front of me and totally farted. I tried to use the "I'm a lady please don't fart" but it didn't work because, well you're dealing with drinking fishermen. So I decided to hit him where it would hurt.
"That'll be $1.00." I say, secretly impressed with this new, genius idea. Why hadn't I thought of it before?
"Huh?" He says.
"$1.00 a fart."
His buddies started laughing hysterically. (Apparently he's the farter of the bunch and he's been bugging them with his farting the whole weekend.) I made $4.00 fart tax before closing time.
Tonight they came back in, and we enjoyed merry conversation, when suddenly he excused himself to go outside. To fart, of course.
"See now, man, you are MAKING MONEY." I told him.
p.s. This totally confirms my philosophy that if you hit a man in the pocketbook he will finally listen to you. You can beg and plead and even cry, and never make headway. Start charging for indiscretions -- now you got submission.
*Bring your cash, check or VISA if you can't leave your farts at home.
An old co-worker of mine, who happened to be from China became known around her satellite office for dropping the stinkiest farts you have ever smelled. And the worst part was she never acknowledged it. It just happened every single day. Of course this became the subject of some pretty serious gossip and jokes at her expense.
It got so bad they felt something had to be done, but not sure how best to handle the problem, they approached their manager. He scolded them for being offended, and screamed, "THAT IS HER CULTURE!"
Angkor Thom near Siem Reap, Cambodia is very cool. Maybe my favorite place in the world? I don't know. I love everything. So do you want to know what happened when I was there?
Summer and I were separated, mulling about on our own when I was overcome with heat and sat down in the shade. A Japanese tour group came and stood close to me (too close, but whatever) and a man sat down right next to me as people took photos. He leaned right and farted the loudest fart in the world, and then sat straight. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like he was Hal Hexum. Then I smelled it. It was foul. And then he walked away. Thanks! Japanese man. Or should I say, Domo Arigato.
