Blast from the Past(a)

(September 05, 2004)

Whoa. When I logged into Diaryland, the date said "October 03, 2092." It's because Joe's start-up computer date is always wrong due to some battery issue or something, and if you don't change it before starting an application, problems can arise.

October 03, 2092. I'll be ash by then.

Yeah okay, that's weird to be presented with suddenly at 3am. Mortality. Great. And what of my legacy? Well...er...at least there's this diary.

Unfortunate intro to the story I'm about to tell, which is the story of why I'm up writing now. I am up because I was sent away from bed for farting and laughing, farting again and laughing so hard the whole bed was shaking. Then I started hiccuping because I couldn't breathe. From laughing. Which made me fart again. Which made me laugh again.

Hey, I'm not the only one who's gassy. HE'S been blasting them out all night, and some of them smell like a Friday-after-school undrunk milk-filled thermos found, forgotten all weekend, curdled and profane, on Sunday night. At one point I sprayed a few squirts of my after-shower body spray in the bedroom where we were watching My Cousin Vinny. "Is it stinky?" he asked. "Yeah but it's okay," I said, rather lovingly, I thought.

"I did a loud one out in left field at the game," he reported. "It sounded like 'MooooooooOOOOOOT!' Nobody called me on it. If they did I was gonna blame it on a goose." Flocks of Canada geese dot the field where the gang plays softball.

So see, it's not just ME. What did we do to cause so much furious expulsion?

It was an uneventful day. We slept late. Joe left for softball at around two, and I did three loads of laundry while he was gone, working at my freelance job in between trips up and down the stairs. I hung his sitar up in the alcove and put up a $7 beaded candle sconce I'd found at TJ Maxx the other day. When he came home I went out for supplies for making tomato-basil sauce and a tomato salad, then we had dinner and watched My Cousin Vinny. Finally. Against his will. Because, despite my insistence for months that it's one of the funniest movies EVER, the Lawn Guyland accent adopted by Marisa Tomei is a sound and timbre totally objectionable to Joe, who'd had a few psycho girlfriends who sounded like that. He did like the movie, albeit grudgingly: "It felt like I was watching Angela the whole time."

I didn't eat much dinner because earlier, by way of combined breakfast and lunch, I'd had two bowls of Total cereal. So at "real" dinner I ate like, nine ziti and two tomato wedges. That Total is filling, apparently.

And fibre-rich.

Apparently.

So maybe the Total is what's causing me to fart. MAYBE it's also the pasta, because I haven't been eating much pasta at all lately. You know how your body always takes some time to adjust when you make a dietary change.

We went to bed. I heated up a hand towel in the microwave for .45 and put it on his neck and shoulders to warm up the muscles, then gave him a sore-from-softball massage.

The first two times I felt a fart coming on, I got up and went to the bathroom to do it. Not that I mind farting within earshot, but because I didn't want to harsh on the post-massage mellow. But then I just let a few go, giggled. He didn't say anything. But by the third butt honk, I lost it. Giggles, suppressed, just make for a shaking breathlessness that's more disruptive than just outright laughing, especially when it's time to inhale. The strain of trying to NOT be loud made the situation twice as funny...yeah, there was no turning back.

"Come on!" he protested as I gave in to the giggle fit. "I'm TIRED! You're laughing! Get up for awhile or something..."

Oh my god. That was like an hour ago and I'm STILL LAUGHING. Maybe because I'm STILL FARTING. And no geese around to blame it on. Where did I leave that after-shower body spray...

Hooooo! Damn that's some funny stuff.