As longtime readers are probably well aware, I am a farter. Yes we all are, Anne, I well know. But how many of you have actually scorched pubic hair? Yeah, that’s what I thought, I say in my superior tone, from upon my cold compress throne.
Anyway, as one of those middle-aged women who has basically given up on notions of romance or being seen as the mysterious fairer sex, laden with silky underpants or make-up, I’d gotten in the habit of warning my husband as he entered the threshold: “STINKY FART” so he might politely veer off into some other room. That’s some marriage-saving maneuvers, I felt pretty sure — throwing yourself on an embarrassment grenade to save the lives of those you love.
Unbeknownst to me, this behavior was apparently quite irritating to my husband, who, six months ago (about three years into me calling STINKY FART), sat on the bed next to me and said, “I KNOW. You don’t have to tell me, Anne.” Trust me on this, his green faced, pained expression underlined as he once again clarified, “I KNOW ALREADY.”
Wanting to be a good partner, I noted his feedback, changed my behavior, and have spent the past six months saying nothing. No matter how stinky. No matter how heroic my need to save him from the fiery enchilada of walking face first into a gigantic floating ghost poop. It’s a true horror – up he comes the stairs, into the room he enters, unawares. I know EVERYTHING, but I’m helpless to stop it. Green he goes. Awkward he seems, taking up his business as if he’s not trying to avoid death by asphyxiation.
So now you tell me what to say to this mutherfucker. Last week, I was up in bed with one of those farts that makes you pause and wonder if you should go and get a colonoscopy just to make sure everything’s OK. Then Stephen King themed Stinky Farts show starts: Up the creaking stairs comes my husband. Closer…. closer. Into our darkened, booby-trapped room. I cannot save him! AND THEN BAM — SWAMPMONSTER ATTACK! Cue husband’s blinking and eyes turning slightly pink, the reflexive step backward, as if in self-defense. In the uncomfortable silence, he staggers to a nearby window, opens it. Returns to sit on the bed. Sniffs.
I say nothing because that is the mutherfucking deal.
The balls on this guy. He has the nerve to turn to me in an accusatory tone and say, “Did… did you fart?”
I need ALL the smartass comments you have.
PS: My parents are in town for the next two weeks. Little gets here Friday, Middle next Wednesday. Wheeee!
um… first of all, that your admission should be met with derision is not cool. Most people do not claim their farts, I am sure you know this. Also those who feel assaulted by farts and don’t understand that there is nothing you can do about them are the ones that say, “DID YOU FART?” So, I don’t know … I guess I would start accusing husband of all farts and disowning all of them… ??
Omigod, disavowing ALL farts and then gas lighting him about it is exactly the kind of wicked I need in my game.
Stomp with great emphasis then assure him that you killed the stink bug.
Talk to your doctor. Is your poop OK. He/she might recommend a colonoscopy. Or, there are other conditions, some involving pancreatic functions, I believe, that can cause this and change treated. Is there anything about your husband that could offend? Pimples? Stinky balls? You might say, how would you feel if I mocked you for that? Rude!
My phone changed my spelling — need to turn off that damn function — I mean “can be treated” not “change treated”
Hee hee hee! Wheeeeee! Wait a sec, gotta wipe my eyes, I’m cryin’ I’m laughing so hard. Sorry, fart humor overload is exactly what you get when your very proper mother is ALSO intolerant to every food known to man.
Which… have you looked into that? I used to kill everything within a twelve foot radius after consuming milk products. Seriously, they have a pill for that nowadays.
If you come up with any badass responses (tee-hee-hee) to this sitch, then more power to ya. I got nothin’.
Maybe he would prefer a more delicate warning, since he is so delicate. You could try Rainbow! Or, Unicorn! Baby duck!
Also, ginger is your friend. I sprinkle a little powder into a little water. Huge difference.
Gluten makes me fart like that. “Are you suggesting that my delicate ladiness produced such a noxious smell? I am offended. I demand an apology. It was the dog.” (Even if you don’t have a dog. Continue to insist it was the dog. And then argue about the fact that he is a moron for not noticing that you do, indeed, own a dog.)
I have to admit: gaslighting is the way I’d go. Either “no, did you?!? Don’t blame me for what you did,” “I don’t smell anything!,” “I smell it, too! Did something die in the wall??,” or “I didn’t smell it before you came in here but OH, MAN. JESUS. What did you EAT?” I mean, if he is going to turn to you and ask if you farted, well. Then he has earned whatever smartassed reply he gets.
I would tell him no, that was just the smell of our love dying.
I warn, too, and my husband doesn’t like it. Whatever.
Oh! For you!
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