On the Satterfield side of our little family, there is a strong tendency to find humor in those things that are not always congruous with accepted social behaviors. Especially those behaviors which are directly related to bodily odors. Yeah, we think farts are funny. If you can sit there at your computer and honestly say that they aren't, then please quit reading now.
I've mentioned before that some of my earliest memories are of driving through Brunswick, Georgia, and everyone blaming the paper mill smell on my mom. (Maybe it was her... the truth is we may never know.) It goes without saying that we like fart jokes. We like making comments like, "Who made that smell," all the while knowing that whoever proffered the question is likely the dealer. My brothers enjoy playing this game the most. John Wesley is not ashamed to admit that he hearts the scent of his own flatulence. I would venture to guess that those of us who are embarrassed by this comment have, at leastonce twice thrice, in our lives taken a second whiff of whatever it was that escaped the area that our number twos exit. Don't lie. You know you've done it.
This is not to say that anyone enjoys the smell of anyone else's gassiness. On the contrary, I've nearly lost my cookies over some of the bombs that my family and friends have dropped (you know who you are, too). If you do enjoy the aroma of others' vapors, well, that's just nasty, and you should probably seek help.
One of my favorite statements from a book (remember I'm an English major... this is a drastic departure from all of the beautiful literature that I've been lucky enough to read) is out of The Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood. It goes, "If there's anything funnier than pooting I wish you'd tell me." I've never read a truer line. You know it's funny. Hilarious. Especially when it's your own. I don't know any self-respecting person who hasn't laughed out loud at least once when they've passed gas.
Which brings me to my story. Perhaps I shouldn't tell you guys this, but, everyone needs a laugh every once in a while at the expense of someone else, and there's some heavily depressing stuff going on in the world right now. Consider this a gift from me to you.
Last week I made some mean chili. I mean really good. Full of beans and spices and yumminess. Chili that kept beckoning us back for more. Ella totally dug it, and for the past week, she's been emitting the fruits of my labor beneath her covers at night... to the point where Summit won't even sit in the same room with her to read books at night. She's been a crop duster. Seriously. I'm amazed that a little girl can make such waves with her hind-end ripples.
Anyways, I thought that I'd have one more stab at the old chili before it was time to put it out to pasture. Note to self: week-old chili does not a settled stomach make. And, oh, how unsettled my stomach became after my session on the stair climber at the gym today. You know that rumbling that tells you it's not safe to be far from a bathroom? You know. Well, I got that gurgle as I was cruising down the interstate on the way home. Far from a lavatory. My forehead started beading up with sweat, my stomach was churning, pressure was building on the inside, and all I could do was grip the steering wheel with all my might and pray for some sort of relief that didn't include me leaving a streak mark on the leather seat of the car.
Just when I thought I was about to give birth to a 20-pound baby, the abatement for my tummy maladies arrived... much to the dismay of my children's olfactory glands. And, oh, what a welcome release it was for my innards. I sighed with relief before I chuckled to myself. The windows were rolled up (should I have cracked them? Maybe, but where's the fun in that?), and I wondered who'd pick up on it first. Not surprisingly, it was old stinky butt herself. "Ewwww. Mommy. That's gross." When Summit picked up on my scent, he quickly chimed in, "Mommy! That's stinky! You smell like poopy!" AHAHAHAHAHAH! I'm sorry, people, but even as I type this, I'm rolling!
And, then I was worried. You know why. Hey, I delivered two 8 1/2 + pound babies and I'm getting older. But, it was all good. I locked the windows, just like my dad used to do when we were little, and laughed the rest of the way home. Even the kids thought it was funny. Oh, the memories I'm helping my kids make. At least they won't take the world and themselves so seriously all the time.
Merry Christmas
I've mentioned before that some of my earliest memories are of driving through Brunswick, Georgia, and everyone blaming the paper mill smell on my mom. (Maybe it was her... the truth is we may never know.) It goes without saying that we like fart jokes. We like making comments like, "Who made that smell," all the while knowing that whoever proffered the question is likely the dealer. My brothers enjoy playing this game the most. John Wesley is not ashamed to admit that he hearts the scent of his own flatulence. I would venture to guess that those of us who are embarrassed by this comment have, at least
This is not to say that anyone enjoys the smell of anyone else's gassiness. On the contrary, I've nearly lost my cookies over some of the bombs that my family and friends have dropped (you know who you are, too). If you do enjoy the aroma of others' vapors, well, that's just nasty, and you should probably seek help.
One of my favorite statements from a book (remember I'm an English major... this is a drastic departure from all of the beautiful literature that I've been lucky enough to read) is out of The Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood. It goes, "If there's anything funnier than pooting I wish you'd tell me." I've never read a truer line. You know it's funny. Hilarious. Especially when it's your own. I don't know any self-respecting person who hasn't laughed out loud at least once when they've passed gas.
Which brings me to my story. Perhaps I shouldn't tell you guys this, but, everyone needs a laugh every once in a while at the expense of someone else, and there's some heavily depressing stuff going on in the world right now. Consider this a gift from me to you.
Last week I made some mean chili. I mean really good. Full of beans and spices and yumminess. Chili that kept beckoning us back for more. Ella totally dug it, and for the past week, she's been emitting the fruits of my labor beneath her covers at night... to the point where Summit won't even sit in the same room with her to read books at night. She's been a crop duster. Seriously. I'm amazed that a little girl can make such waves with her hind-end ripples.
Anyways, I thought that I'd have one more stab at the old chili before it was time to put it out to pasture. Note to self: week-old chili does not a settled stomach make. And, oh, how unsettled my stomach became after my session on the stair climber at the gym today. You know that rumbling that tells you it's not safe to be far from a bathroom? You know. Well, I got that gurgle as I was cruising down the interstate on the way home. Far from a lavatory. My forehead started beading up with sweat, my stomach was churning, pressure was building on the inside, and all I could do was grip the steering wheel with all my might and pray for some sort of relief that didn't include me leaving a streak mark on the leather seat of the car.
Just when I thought I was about to give birth to a 20-pound baby, the abatement for my tummy maladies arrived... much to the dismay of my children's olfactory glands. And, oh, what a welcome release it was for my innards. I sighed with relief before I chuckled to myself. The windows were rolled up (should I have cracked them? Maybe, but where's the fun in that?), and I wondered who'd pick up on it first. Not surprisingly, it was old stinky butt herself. "Ewwww. Mommy. That's gross." When Summit picked up on my scent, he quickly chimed in, "Mommy! That's stinky! You smell like poopy!" AHAHAHAHAHAH! I'm sorry, people, but even as I type this, I'm rolling!
And, then I was worried. You know why. Hey, I delivered two 8 1/2 + pound babies and I'm getting older. But, it was all good. I locked the windows, just like my dad used to do when we were little, and laughed the rest of the way home. Even the kids thought it was funny. Oh, the memories I'm helping my kids make. At least they won't take the world and themselves so seriously all the time.
Merry Christmas
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