I was prompted to write this when I read The Obnoxious SAHM's post* today. She asks us what we have to say about this taboo subject for women: farting. I don't know why it is such a taboo, because as she says and we all know: everyone does it. But for some reason we feel a need to hide it--some people even manage to hide it from those closest to them. While others are proud of their fluffs, their toots, their flatulence, their cutting of the cheese, their trumpets, their breaking of wind--I could go on. I vacillate between the two: hiding it or flaunting it. I have been known to threaten a repeat performance if my husband makes too much fuss. On the flip side I have also been known to blame the kids. (No D, it wasn't me that day! It really was MasterFour).
So here's my story...
Picture this, it is the era we call B.C. (before children--no religious slight intended, it just sounds better than B.K.--before kids or B.S.--before sprogs) and Will and I are travelling through Bali, and after a few days in Candidasa, we decide to book a fishing trip on an outrigger canoe. "That's all booked for tomorrow. Now let's go for dinner and a few drinks.", we say. Dinner done and with a few beers in the belly, time passes and before we know it, it is quite late and we have only a few hours before our 5 a.m. wake up call from Wayan, the fellow who is taking us out on his boat. We hit the sack for a bit of dreamless slumber.
5 a.m. rolls around all too soon. There is a rap at the door, and my head is pounding. "Whose bright idea was it to book this ruddy fishing trip?" It was mine. "Whose stupid idea was it to have so many beers last night?" It was a mutual agreement. "Who's dumb idea was it to stay up until all hours of the night?" That was me again--they were playing my song...s.
We manage to drag ourselves from our beds and show our teeth to our toothbrushes. We open the door to our bungalow and wouldn't you know it, even the sun had the sense to stay in bed at this horrendous hour! So we make our way in the dark to the waiting canoe. We make it about 50 metres from the shore, bait our hooks (the sun decided to make an appearance by then) and then my seediness from too many beers the night before mingles with my propensity for seasickness, and I spend the rest of the trip with my head over the side of the boat.
Now, you might know that when one is losing one's lunch, or in my case, an unknown quantity of alcohol consumed the night before, one does not have control over...well...anything. So with every heave there is an expelling of foul air out the other end. Whose idea was it to drink those beers again? So, this is how I spent the trip, heaving and trumpetting simultaneously. I think that poor Wayan was about to have an aneurysm trying to hold in his laughter, and I think that to this day, I am probably a favourite story he tells his mates about the silly Canadian woman and her bodily mishaps.
The up side and there always is one--even with this story--is that all the losing of my lunch attracted quite a few fish (I know! Ewwww!), but the only one who caught a fish that day was me, and I consider it a small consolation in view of my mortification with embarrassment that day.
That is my most embarrassing story, and now you have two choices we can talk about farts or your most embarrassing story. What will it be? Or you can just laugh at mine, but I would prefer someone come out on the limb with me...
[*Edited 17 March 2011: Obnoxious has deleted her blog so I can no longer link to it, You'll have to use your imagination.]
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