TMI Thursday

I'm taking a note from Alice and gracing you with TMI Thursday. If the title hasn't been enough to warn you, you're on your own. Ready?

I am a farty person. (said in my best Craig Ferguson voice) I believe I am more farty than the "average" person. It's how I've always been, no matter what I eat, how many times a day I poo, it's just me. Perhaps it was fated because Shelly rhymes with Smelly, who knows. It's just a fact. (Do you think Donna is totally regretting being my roommie at BlogHer about now??) Obviously, I can control myself and I don't just go around tooting offensively. Well, at least most of the time. When R and I first started dating, I didn't fart in front of him at all for at least the first year. Knowing me now, he's pretty astounded at my restraint then, but you do what you have to do when you're in love.

When we'd been dating about 5 months, R decided he was long overdue for a vacation and he offered to take me with him. We ended up in Puerto Vallarta for a week that also included my 30th birthday. I love Mexican food. I could eat it every day and be perfectly content. While on vacation in Mexico, it isn't surprising that I did, in fact, eat Mexican every day, multiple times a day. I was in heaven. I didn't know it at the time, but us vacationing together was a test of our relationship for him. You know, it's a great way to figure out quickly if you're compatible with someone when you're away on vacation and spending 24/7 together.

Fast forward to about Day 4. Eating refried beans at least twice daily, plus all the salsa/guacamole I could eat poolside each day, began to take its toll on me. Since we were in the early days of our romance, the only way I could only go #2 (Big Job, as we call it) was to go back up to our room while he stayed at the pool. It was unthinkable for me to take care of business with him in the same room as me. Turns out it wasn't Big Jobs I should have feared. On the night of Day 4, R was in the shower while I lay in bed watching tv. I had a huge gas attack. I could not have stopped it if someone had cemented my cheeks shut, it HAD to come out. But not only did it come out, it reeked. With no exaggeration I can say it was like a dead animal crawled out of my ass and plopped itself onto the pillows. I had never before, or since, smelled that utterly putrid. Mortified, I began flapping the covers and fanning the air so frantically I practically achieved liftoff when I heard R open the bathroom door and start to come into the room. I started yelling "DON'T COME IN HERE!!! STAY THERE! DON'T COME IN HEEEERE!!!" but it was too late. R rounded the corner and the stench slapped him in the face.

I'm a nervous laugher, especially when it comes to something like this. So not only did R enter the room where something had obviously died, but he was greeted by an hysterical hyena. I can only imagine what he was thinking at that point. My only saving grace was that I didn't also wet the bed from laughing so hard. Even today when we reference the incident (yeah, I'm never going to live it down), my only response is that what happens in a foreign country, stays in a foreign country. In the end, he married me anyway so I say no matter what I do now, he was seriously forewarned.