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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.”
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!”
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.”
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.
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.