Friday, May 18, 2007

He Takes My Breath Away

A stench wafts over me!

I look over at the DNB. He stares stoically at the television.

Although I now have two brothers, I was raised in a house full of girls. My mother would never say the word "fart," preferring the more dainty, if less apt, "poot." My father was the only one in the house who emitted noxious fumes, often with great gusto. When it happened at the dinner table, usually accompanied by hand gestures as punctuation, my mother would cluck her tongue and admonish, "Say 'excuse me,' Greg."

The DNB, however, was raised in a house full of boys. Farting, belching, and mass food consumption were the norm. It was a running contest, he proclaims, to see who could produce the loudest and stinkiest fart. Those of you who know him, know he's not your usual smelly boy - there's definitely something wrong with his digestive system, and it runs in the family. His mother often comments, "If you can't do anything about it, you might as well enjoy it." And yes, child, he does.

So you're starting to get the picture. We're from two different worlds.

When we started dating, this caused a bit of tension. We had to compromise, and I laid down a set of Rules which the DNB accepted as fair. No farting at the dinner table. No farting in bed. No farting in the car (that one's definitely a losing battle).

But the DNB has found a loophole, as there is no rule about farting on the couch. Blast!

Another wave of toxic air reaches my nostrils.

"Baby!" I shout accusingly. He is beginning to remind me of a Bud Light commercial, the "Mr. Silent Killer Gas Passer" one.

This time, he looks over at me, sheepishly. "I'm a dirty, dirty boy," he says. This is DNB-code for "Excuse me," the closest he'll ever come. Although it's an inside joke more than anything, I view it as bearing a touch of respect, an acknowledgement that I'm a girl and our home isn't a frat house.

Five minutes pass. Another noxious cloud approaches, and I plug my nose. Then a fourth, and a fifth, and I finally jump up from the couch. "I'm going to bed, where the air is clear," I announce as I leave the room, mindful of the Rules.

The DNB, unwanted, follows. "Sometimes I smell them and I think, 'that's pretty bad,' but that last one hit me like a punch in the face. Man, that was awful," he rambles as he climbs the stairs.

I'm poised defensively by our bed when he walks into the room. "No farting in the bed!" I remind him.

"I know. I'm done," he claims and climbs under the covers. "Wow, those were really bad."

We turn out the lights. I lay as close to the edge on my side as possible.

"Once in band, I farted and the clarinets smelled it. Oh yeah." The DNB stares at the ceiling in the dark, reminiscing.

I scoot further towards the edge, silent.

"Can we spoon?" he asks.

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