Marriage stinks. Literally.


Newly weds.  Have you noticed they don’t fart or burp in front of each other nearly as frequently as us old-timers.  In the beginning of my marriage, I would strike matches (even coolio incense matches)

in order to save my new husband’s virgin nostrils from the fumes I had expelled while making doo.  Making doo is how my Hawaiian friend says taking a dump. I think it just sounds so much sweeter.  Like I made someone a heartfelt gift.  She also says shee shee for pee, and I adopted this as my own to use with my kiddo (because sometimes I like to pretend that I am Hawaiian).  That created some serious confusion when she went to preschool.  I am not a fan of real words, especially those designed for gender specific anatomical parts.  Since I saw “Boys on the Side” in the early 90’s,  I have substituted the word hoo hoo for what my friends little girl calls a gi ner (think short for vagina). My daughter started calling it her privacy when she was three (she’s gifted, what can I say?).  Making doo, going shee shee, wiping your  hoo hoo really well, so your privacy is nice and clean…  I really do speak like this.

I have a feeling that there will be a day when she comes home from school in tears, sobbing because she has no idea what a vagina is.  Or a penis.  There’s another word I don’t use.  I am more comfortable with the highly mature wiener or wee for short, sometimes dingle simply because it makes me laugh a little. With this high standard of vocabulary use, it’s a wonder that on my daughter’s first day of school I got totally pissed when a little boy shouted,

“You hit me in the nuts!” (oh, not to me.  I wouldn’t do that to a kindergartener.  No matter how snotty his nose was.)  The word nuts is inappropriate to me.  Why?  Good question.  Maybe because nuts too closely resemble the real deal.

On a side note, I had the hardest time transitioning from the word fart to toot,  when my daughter was little.  The word toot is just ridiculous.  Not refined, like  hoo hoo.

So, my husband was introduced into my creative word world… and gradually we introduced each other to the world of other peoples’ smells.  He actually gave me my first “dutch oven.” This is not the expected highlight of a romantic evening, but did I ever say he was romantic?  Nah.  Wrong guy.  He’s great.   He is also romantically challenged.  When I got in my car the other day, I found a single, beautiful rose sitting on the front seat.  I was fooled for a minute.  A few chick flick scenes briefly hijacked my brain.  Is it possible?  He bought me a flower?   That was so sweet and romantic!  And then I remembered that he had been to the dentist that morning.   Our dentist always gives you a rose when you leave.  Makes the payment easier to digest, or something.  Damn. Well, at least my dentist rocks. Of course, he has never brushed his teeth in the same room that I make doo.  Lucky lucky man.  Because after 13 years of marriage, we no longer use incense matches.   I have to admit, there’s even been a day or two that I don’t turn on the fan.  And this may or may not be intentional.

It’s all payback for the first dutch oven.  Bet he wishes he’d never done THAT.

When you first get married, you try to hide the fact that all these atrocious smells and substances come out of your body.  Matches, orange spray, fans…

After you’re married a good 5-10 years, and especially after you’ve had a kid together, you stop caring.  You’re too busy, or tired, or just plain spiteful to always use the fan, let alone go out of your way to find incense matches.

Now, as we near 15 years of being together, I am finding that we rarely talk.  Sometimes we only exchange gas, no words.  He lets out a toot upstairs.  I reply with a ripper from down the hall.  He makes a moose call from the couch.  I respond with a duck call that would make a duck hunter proud.   Fortunately, we still laugh.  I have to admit, I’ve gotten him good a few times when he falls asleep on the couch.  Couch sleepers are just asking for it, in my insomniatic opinion.  I think,  “Well, how dare he just doze off like that, all relaxed and able to slip off into dreamland, without any effort.”

In my jealous state, I turn on Dancing with the Stars and assume a position next to his face, and slowly, hopefully silently, let him know how much I love him.  It’s like a smell-o-gram.  Sometimes he’ll wake up and yell something incoherent and then fall right back asleep.  Sometimes I think it just sends him further into dreamland.  Like laughing gas.

I love my bubble, but I must admit to a fear.  I am scared that one day we will no longer speak at all.  We will create a whole new form of communication based on different noxious expulsions.  We will no longer have bathroom doors.  We will show each other our doo with pride – looking into the bowl as we once did with our daughters excretions, exclaiming, “Wow!  That one looks like a dinosaur!” Where does it stop?  Oh god!  Is this why marriages fail?  I think I need a class.  A class on how to forgive the dutch oven and lock the bathroom door.

Maybe the outhouse should make a revival?


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