In an effort to keep my writings high-brow and sophisticated, this post will be about gas. Farts, to be more precise.
We just ended a six week run of house guests. We’ve had family, we’ve had friends, and we love them all dearly. It’s quiet again in our house, reasonably speaking, but something lingers, hanging in the air like a cloud.
It’s gas.
At first, months and months ago, I chalked this up to changes in my personal habits. I quit smoking, and thought that this increase in flatulence might be related. I’d been exercising more by playing freestyle football (soccer to us Yanks) and sweating profusely at times. I started drinking different kinds of beer, switching between Estrella Damm and Samuel Adams’ seasonal samplers, which include a whole range of different brews. This may be the root cause — the beer, but not root beer. I digress.
Initially, I blamed it on my mother in law. Pointing the finger at one’s mother in law is a normal and expected behavior of any freshly married man, with no disrespect intended (love you, Ama). She’d been visiting us, helping Idoia and I with all manner of motherly stuff like cleaning and cooking, when I noticed my not-so-discreet increase in rear port musicality.
Don’t get me wrong, by the way. I love farting. So much so, that in the proper company, I seize each opportunity and do all I can to commemorate the “announcement” as creatively and memorably as I can. This includes a fresh range of athletic and dance-inspired physical poses and improvised deliveries. Think of it as “interpretive farting.” I’ve unveiled the “Mister Olympia Fart,” the “John Travolta Saturday Night Fever Fart,” the “Pink Floyd Marching Hammers Fart,” and the totally adorable “Little Orphan Annie Fart.”
“I think your Ma’s making me fart so much,” I said to Idoia one night before turning out the lights. I’d let one rip prior, throwing back the covers and aiming it away from her. Why? Because I’m a good husband, that’s why. I’ve only Dutch Ovened her once, and it was worth it, but I know better.
She, my wife, incidentally, rarely seems to find farts amusing. She usually admonishes me with her Mother Voice, “CHRIS.” This, obviously, only goads me on.
I don’t care who you are, how educated you are, where you’re from or how sophisticated and refined you think you are — farting’s still funny.
“Well, she’s cooking a lot of interesting and unique stuff. Things we don’t normally eat,” she said. I assumed she was right, because she usually is.
A couple weeks later, Ama had returned to California, and my family was here. My WHOLE family. Mom, Dad, sister, and Grandma. This was after the kids had been born. My farting had not only continued, it had increased. I was enjoying myself tremendously, and was happy that I had even more people to perform for. I love an audience, especially one that knows me so well as to expect things like the “Clint Eastwood .357 Magnum Fart.”
Then, the house was empty of guests for a few days. My family had left after Thanksgiving, and it was, for the first time, “just the four of us.” My farting had pretty much stopped! I was devastated. Idoia, not so much.
Summer flew out from California though, that next Thursday, to see Idoia and the babies. This was a wonderful time, not only because it helped us further (extra hands!) but because it ushered in the return of my gas, AND someone who appreciated it! Thank god.
I said to Idoia, one night, “So it wasn’t your Ma. It wasn’t my parents. Jesus, maybe it’s just plain old visitor gas.”
She shot milk out her nose, and still does, whenever this phrase crosses her mind.
Now, I’m not so sure. Summer’s back in California, and this gas is still lingering. I’m not complaining, of course, but at this point I’m beginning to think fatherhood is the real culprit here.
After all, once the twins are old enough, I will have two fresh, willing participants for “pull my finger” and what could be better than that?
