Tag Archives: farts

Farts Equal Love


I’ve been working through my third year of grad school (holy crap, that means I’m almost forty-one and not only have a mortgage, but almost $100K in student loan debt!  Awesome.) at a play therapy site.  This means I am working toward having most of the letters of the alphabet after my name.  Special.

So, I do therapy with kids, which is – of course – super amazing.  I just watched the Lego Movie and I want to say “awesome” to describe everything!  It is super awesome.  Everything is awesome.

Except the farts.  Well, in fact, they are awesome too, but I don’t have any air freshener in that tiny room.  And the heating unit sucks.  Yesterday I was being farted on in a seventy-seven degree room.  I think that’s actually a form of torture.

I made the mistake early on with a four year old.  He farted.  I laughed.  Dammit.  I know better!  I’m a parent!  As soon as they break you with laughter, it becomes a form of entertainment.

And so he farts, at least once a session.

What is interesting to me is not only how often I have been farted on in my life (as a massage therapist, a mommy, and now a kiddo therapist) but the “WHY?”

Why do people enjoy farting on me?  Is it because I remind them of worn out underwear?  Is it a new kind of doormat syndrome?  Toilet face syndrome?  Do I smell too good?  Am I secretly made of beans?

Well, in writing my thesis I have been learning a lot about the brain.  I would learn a lot more if I could retain any sort of fact at this point in my life, so I guess I should say – I’m READING a lot about the brain.  Some of it sticks.  Most of it doesn’t.  The brain is cool.  I’ve got that part down.  And it tells us when we’re safe.  Our nervous system relaxes when we feel safe.  We can fart when we feel safe.  Chances are, if you are running from a bear, you probably aren’t farting.  Until you get to a safe place, then you’ll likely shit your pants.

I am that place.  These kids are often coming in because of trauma or neglect.  Being comfortable and safe feeling enough to fart is a huge compliment.  They aren’t running from the bears, they are relaxing their wee nervous systems.

In my face.

And their wee nervous systems are stinky.

Farts equal acceptance.

I wanted to say, Farts Equal Love, because it is Valentine’s Day, but that might be a stretch.  Though it would mean my husband loves me very very much.


The Farting, Smiling Queen


I try to be an upbeat, annoying optimist most of the time. In fact, a client actually called me “Positive Polly” last week (a genius name for a line of overly bubbly doll figures – they could fart bubbles and laugh when you pulled their string). But sometimes, every now and then, the Eyore in my life comes to cloud me up with negativity. That Eyore is my mother. Kind of. But then again – maybe darker – like Eyore’s shadow on a cloudy day (yes, I know that’s kind of impossible). She can be a brilliant, funny person, but oh can she also be about as easy to swallow as a razor blade. If she ever reads this, I’ll probably have a hit out on me, but I have to vent, and this is my venting platform now and then. I just want to mention, there is a dash of humor in here though, and I do need to write an entire post about the underwear incident because it was so funny I had a side-ache. I might have to delete this soon, but in maintaining my own mental health, I must expunge it!

I like it when people tell me I’m a terrible parent and they’ve spent a total maybe 3 weeks with me in the past eight years of my being a parent. (by the way, that is called sarcasm)

And that person hasn’t parented me since I was 14.

And that person can’t seem to figure out that even though I make fun of myself (a lot), I am doing a far better job than I experienced as a child. Isn’t that what having a kid is about? Improving on the job our parents did with us? I mean, that and being reminded just how funny infantile humor is? I mean, farts are funny.

They are always funny.

Even if you are dying – drop a bomb and I guarantee someone will laugh. Maybe even you! Sometimes, without kids around to remind us, we stop seeing the humor in every day. A bird poops on your shoulder? C’mon, that’s funny. Your husband farts so hard on vacation that he has to ditch his undies in a public bathroom somewhere in La Jolla? That’s INCREDIBLY funny.

And, if you can’t see the humor in life, then get your ass near some children (well, not your ass per se. That’s just inappropriate. Put some pants on already, you damn fool!) and see what the hell they think is so funny! It’s usually physical comedy.

Or farts.

And once you find that place of many giggles, you might want to stay there a while, because the other extreme is apparently my mother. The bird pooping on her shoulder would just be another example of Obamacare. Somehow she’d blame Obama for the underwear, as well. And, unless you are going to admit you are the one who created the crap hole that is your life, you might not want to go there. It is a lonely place. It is a depressed, mentally ill world where people are mostly bad and their intentions are mainly evil based.

Or you can fart. And find it funny. And fucking enjoy your ability to smile and be silly! Go! Do it! Drop a bomb (a nonviolent stinker, I mean) and live a little.

Just try not to poop yourself. It’s a waste of perfectly good underwear.

The Life-cycle of the Turkey Fart


I remember laughing so hard I nearly peed when my aunt told me, “It’s not like their shit smells any differently than ours!”

I had never in my life heard that expression, and I thought that really summed up the world at large.  I mean, Jennifer Anniston poops.  The Queen of England poops (although, I bet it’s not very often).  Even Oprah poops.  Of course, Oprah probably has some million dollar poop oxidizer in her bowl that instantly turns her turds into flowers that can then be planted at her school in Africa.  Oprah.  She’s just the best isn’t she?  Pooping out flowers.

So, when I think of bodily smells that creep from our orifices, which I obviously think about far too often, I think of farts.  Will I ever reach an age when they don’t make me laugh?  Well, I think that age is around 86.  I know a guy who is 86, and I never hear him laugh when he farts, which is rather regularly. When we are children, we let them fly with pride!  It’s like a craft project we made at preschool!

“I did that!  All by myself!”

When we get to middle school and the teen years we are mortified if one sneaks out and makes a noise that may identify it as our own.  When we get to middle age, we aren’t as embarrassed, but we still don’t claim them with the insurmountable pride of childhood farts.  I think that in our old age, we simply have lost our sense of hearing… and perhaps our sense of smell.  The old guy I know, he walks along, sounding like there’s bongos in his underwear.

“thump, bump, a wump, a wump, plump… thump.”

He doesn’t even look around mischievously.  That surprises me, because I imagine myself at that age, dropping those bombs with a bit of intention.

Certain foods do make different smells, that’s a known fact.  So, maybe Oprah and Jennifer Anniston do smell differently than the rest of us mere mortals.  I imagine they live on emu infused wild Alaskan salmon with sides of caviar encrusted ginger roots.  And calorie free chocolate, injected with vitamin A to make your skin flawless.

I must say that on Thanksgiving my sister and I discovered a new smell.  Well, not a new smell, but we identified an old smell.  Okay, not “old” per se, but “familiar.” We created a scientific theory, based on the not so subtle turkey fart.  We all know the turkey fart.  We have lived through so many Thanksgivings, so many turkeys.  Of course, the turkeys did not live through so many Thanksgivings.

Sorry birdies.

After eating far too much yummie food, and performing the asparagus experiment (eating asparagus and peeing at different intervals to see just how long it takes for your pee to stink – by the way, it takes longer than a minute, and less than an hour.  I was drinking beer and was distracted from my other intervals), we started to experience the need to expel some noxious fumes.  Instead of stepping outside, like Jennifer Anniston might do, or retreating to the bathroom with Oprah to arrange some flowers, my sister and I took two young hostages and locked them in a small room with us.  It was not nice, but these two really had been asking for it.  So we locked them in, with the premise of “playing games.”  Well, we actually did play some games.  But we also created more space in our descending colons by allowing some air to escape.

The smell was intense and putrid, like The Ghost of Turkeys Past was haunting our nostrils, yelling (or gobbling), “How dare you eat me?!  I was young and vibrant, allowed to roam free and eat non-cement based foods.  Still, you cut off my head in your weird celebration.  I am NOT giving thanks to you.  I am giving evil, potent GAS to you!  Take that, stupid humans!!”

We laughed, which confused the hostages, who were already a bit confused by the air assault that was taking place.  They grabbed their game pieces frantically, getting more agitated by the minute.  This made my sister and I laugh harder, which again, forced out more of the stale air.  I stated the obvious, that these farts were like nothing else.  They were heavy and stale and so very smelly.  But they had a strange personality to them.  They did not linger.  It’s like they sprouted legs and crawled upwards towards the birth mother’s nostrils and once inhaled back into the original host, they disappeared again.  Only to be expelled a few minutes later.  A lightbulb went off over my sister’s head.  She excitedly jabbered her new scientific theory, “I’ve got it, it’s the Turkey Fart Cycle.  The Life-cycle of the Turkey Fart!”

I do believe that we’re on to something.  You toot the turkey fart, it leaves the host, is inhaled into the lungs and quickly reabsorbed into the bloodstream where it is turned back into gas.  Then the cycle continues.  We do need to perform some more experiments before we can get it past the “theory” stage, so we’ll keep you posted.

I don’t think our hostages were amused.  They started to rise up against their captors.  We released them before there was any blood shed.  The night ended somewhat peacefully, other than the occasional turkey fart attempting to escape our bubbles with the burning desire to infect other hosts (but being only farts, they don’t realize that they must be ingested by the host via turkey meat).   Instead they were inhaled back into our bodies, as we dreamed of our upcoming fame in the scientific community.  Somehow, some way, the Life-cycle of the Turkey Fart is going to save us from future parasitic nastiness.

Just wait.  You’ll see…