December 13, 2012

And Think About What You've Done!

You know the phrase, “talking out of your ass”? Some people do it to sound important.  Apparently, Thunderhead and I do it to express affection.  Literally.

I’m a gassy person.  I’m pretty sure I could have been included in the national study on cow flatulence and global warming.  It’s that epic.  I also like to sleep in little to nothing, and enjoy curling up under a really heavy comforter (or two) on the bed.

Thunderhead works a swing shift, frequently not arriving for snuggle time until after midnight.  On this night in question, he turns on a small light so as not to trip over the blossoming shoe garden on the floor, undresses, and lifts the covers to scoot over to my side for a good “I missed you all day” cuddle.  Only, as cabbage and the paralysis of sleep would have it, I’d launched an odiferous ICBM that was just waiting to deliver its nasal payload.  As the fresh, chilly night air rushed in, the warm and scented air under the covers rushed out.  I woke to a sniff and a retch, and the covers being hurriedly pressed against the mattress in an effort to keep the rest of the funk where it could not burn nasal passages and curl hair  As I remember it, he looked at me and said “That’s nasty.”  I giggled, reached for him, and latched on like a Big Spoon and a facehugger made a baby.

Payback is a bitch.  Mostly for the neighbors who have to hear us through the walls.  Not long after, Thunderhead is able to use flex time to leave work a few hours early.When he gets to my place, I’m relaxing in bed with a good book, catching up with Harry Dresden’s misadventures as the Winter Knight.  As he undresses for bed, he bends forward a little, covers his mouth in an “oopsie, you caught me” pin-up pose and squeaks out a fart.  I smirked, told him he was a goof, and put down my book for a “come here, you.” cuddle.  As he crawls into bed, and for the next half hour, I’m treated to a symphony of flatulence.  There are long, baritone notes. There are rapid fire staccato  bursts.  And then there are the sweet, haunting arias conveying the death of a cabbage leaf, or so I imagined. Really, I watched an altered version of Amadeus in my mind’s theater, where Salieri reverently described the anal opera coming from Thunderhead’s nether regions rather than the brilliance of Motzart’s music.

All to which, I put on what I can only assume is a mom face, and asked “Do you have to poop?”.  “Nope.  I don’t have to poop.” said he, as he bore down and squeaked out the battle cry of a church mouse.  I couldn't’ help but giggle.  I think it was the cheeky look he had, as he glanced over his shoulder mid-note.  Through a toothy, lopsided grin, my dimples and I told him to “Go poop.”  Much like a kid who’s overdue for a nap, and about 30 seconds from a tantrum, he responds with “But I don’t have to poop.”   I believe he may have stuck his lower lip out for effect.

“I think you do.  Go poop.”

“I don’t have to poop!”  *fart*

“Ok, seriously.  Go poop!” I say, as I plant a foot mid-cheek and shove him out of bed.

As he’s standing there next to the bed, putting on his best defiant face, out pops another musical note.  Though, this time, it’s as if his lunch has heard the commotion and assumed it was being asked for an encore.  There didn’t appear to be any effort behind it.

“I don’t wanna.”  He says.

I stab a finger through the air and point towards the bathroom door, “Go sit on the toilet and think about what you’ve done then.”

Through fake dejection, and a little giggle of his own, he bows his head and marches off to sit on the throne.  Moments pass in silence, and I’d contemplated picking up my book again when I hear a muffled but defiant voice from the bathroom, “Still don’t have to poop!”

“Don’t care.  Go poop.”, I reply.

Silence.  A clock ticks by a half minute, and I hear, ”Oh!  Oh! . . . . I almost pooped!”

Were there rocks in my head, they would have rattled with the slow shake as I wonder what kind of questions I’ll have to answer over brunch with my neighbors about this whole exchange.  Finally, with the joke played out, I hear a trickle of pee and a flush.  Thunderhead walks back into the bedroom and crawls under the covers, pulls them up to his nose like a kid, blinks at me as he pulls them down to his chin and says “Hi.”

I’m pretty sure you could have counted all my fillings as I said, “You’re a goof.”

“Yes, but I’m your goof.” he tells me as he drapes a hand across my chest and throws his leg over mine.  I turned out the light, kissed him on the top of his head, and we drifted off to sleep.

~*~*~*  Fin

As an epilogue, a few days later, my downstairs friend and neighbor threw a housewarming party.  The paint had dried, the furniture had been delivered, and she was ready to cook enough to feed a small army.  (Which, if you’re lacking a small army, and have need of a way to get rid of food, I can offer up Thunderhead.  For a small fee, of course.)  As the night progressed, and the drinks flowed, I asked if my neighbor had heard the exchange that night.  Apparently, she only heard the most emphatic “Go poop!” before she rolled her eyes, put the pillow over her head, and went to sleep. Now, of course, when you hear only that much, it’s strange enough to make you want to hear the rest.  So, he and I retold the story for the other guests.  By the end of the night, “Go poop!” became a sort of command you say to someone when you want them to stop acting the fool.  I believe we can now claim that our building really does have its own vernacular.

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