Re-post: How Do YOU Spell Relief?

Due to my busy schedule of oversleeping and not getting my kids
to school on time and then fighting them to study along with my 
writing schedule for my new novel, I’ve kind of blown off my blog.
And that’s just not cool. SO, I thought I’d re-post some of my “best
of” posts from a previous blog just to keep you entertained while I
settle into my new ridiculous schedule.  Here’s something that some
of you (probably very few of you) didn’t know about me: I fart.


And what’s with this green
font, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you. I’m quite gassy….and I am feeling a 
little on the green side.
Yeah, ewwww gross! Well, there’s no reason to pretend here. I come
from a long line of farters. I’ll omit their names to protect the (not-so)
innocent. BUT I inherited the fart-gene, baby….from BOTH sides of 
the family. Now I’ve not yet inherited the gaseous genetic trait where
I race to the bathroom with lower cheeks pinched tightly leaving a “pop-
pop-pop-pop” sound trail behind me. (Our family has actually named
this trait after one of the family elders, however, since I’m attempting to
protect the family fart tree, I guess I’ll have to omit that too.)
Anyway, we’ve got ’em all in our family: the loud, the louder, the machine
gun, the “oh, hell, who stepped on the dog”, the not-so smelly, the smelly,
the s.b.d. and the “WHAT crawled up your ass and died”. ANY type of 
fart ever known to man can be claimed by anyone (or several) in my family.
My brother recently chewed me out on facebook for discussing his “rancid
ass” on the internet. Hmmmmmm. Truth be told, HE brought it up when he
reminded me of a fart he “dropped in my ear” during a trip we took together
to Arizona. My husband has been known to hear my bom-booferous,
window shakers from over two window unit air-conditioners (with about 8
spoons shoved inside each….THAT is another story that I’ll call Why My
Kids and Spoons Caused Me to Declare Bankruptcy), a ceiling fan, a 
snoring congested 1 year old and the movie DIE HARD cranked up on the
tv. I lied in my room laughing for 15 minutes after my own fart only to finally
think, “He must not have heard me. Maybe it wasn’t as loud as I thought.”
Only to have him poke his head in the bedroom door about 30 seconds later
and ask, “Are you okay? Did the roof fall on you?” DAMN. How embarrassing.
Well…THAT was nothing.
TODAY I was peeling potatoes for dinner and the washing machine was 
making it’s usual jet engine noises in the spin cycle and I had a CD playing 
in the kitchen. I looked around to make sure my husband wasn’t around (kids
are fair game…I’ll fart around them just to get even for them walking in on me
in the bathroom or only peeing on MY side of the bed!) and I let ‘er rip.
Well, I don’t know what a ripped spleen or ruptured small intestine actually 
feel like but I imagined it today. OH MY WORD! I doubled over and cried 
against the sink it hurt my abdomen so bad. I must have shrieked without 
realizing it because Hamo and my husband came running in thinking that I must
have cut myself. Then through the tears I started laughing. My husband asked
what happened and I told him he didn’t want to know. He looked puzzled. So
somewhat embarrassed I told him, “I farted so hard I hurt my intestines.”
He just rolled his eyes and muttered something in Arabic about “giving him 
strength.” 
At least my son felt for me. He hugged me and said, “I’m sorry your farts are 
so strong they fight back.” Little snot. He snickered as he walked out. Laugh
if they must. But I may be the first person in history to ever end up in traction
due to bad gas!
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