I am woman, hear my rectum

So, something happened the other night as I slumbered at Cowboy's grandmother's (his GRANDMOTHER’S! PG thoughts, please). 

And just as a forewarning, I wasn’t going to post this... but I feel its my obligation, nay, responsibility as a woman and a blogger to let these issues air. Women have come a long way since the days of corsets, voting rights and emergence into the workplace. But the lives of men and women are not equal. No, no, no. Not until we can pee standing up, will we achieve equal pay and equal stature. It’s all about the bowels.  

Anyways, Cowboy wakes every morning at 5. And at 5:08, 5:15, 5:23 and 5:30. 

In the midst of the 5:15 to 5:23 slumber, at his grandmother’s house, mind you, I did one of the most terribly awful, no good, downright disgusting things a girlfriend can do. This was worse than stealing all his ex's e-mails and sending viruses to make their iTunes play MMMBop over and over. And much more horrifying.  

I farted.

Not even kidding. Air attack, anal acoustics, after dinner mint-- whatever you want to call it. I did it. Seriously, I'm not even sure why he hasn't dumped me yet.

It wasn’t the silent kind or the one you can pass off on the dog or the house settling or something. It was a rip resembling a ketchup bottle almost empty.

Kind, sweet Cowboy said nothing and feigned sleep. 

I'm in the clear, I thought, unmoving, pretending to snooze and promising to yodel for Jesus if only to keep the smell away.

Cowboy didn’t say anything that morning. He went to work and I too did my... business. 

But Cowboy's generosity lasted only until evening when he met me for burgers and quizzed me on the after-effects of our shrimp dinner the night before.

"I've been gassy all day," he said. "Did you feel that way too?"

That’s the thing about boys. They can totally toot and the world applauds. But should a lady break wind, you might as well give her facial hair and remove her uterus. She is no longer female.  

"NO," I said, a little too eagerly. "But maybe that's because I ate a handful whereas you consumed ohh... the entire Pacific Ocean."

"Maybe," he said.

So later, just as our food arrived and our starving bodies could re-nourish, Cowboy blows the gasket.  

“So last night, I don’t know if you remember, but I think I heard you...”

Horrified and no longer hungry, I blamed the cat. I blamed the bed spring. I even blamed a drive-by shooting. But since his grandmother lives near nothing, he knew it wasn't true. 

"You don't have to make a stink about it," he said. "I thought this was proof of our comfort with each other. Why are you so embarrassed?"

"You couldn't be a gentleman and not mention it?" I asked. "I would never do that to you. I would NEVER-EVER-NOT-IN-A-MILLION-YEARS-HERE,-AT-HOME-OR-IN-MY-BLOG tell anyone something like that. I don’t even SAY the word ‘fart.’ Musical butts belong unspoken."

"Sorry..." he said.

I shouldn't blame him. Where he comes from, parents teach their children to pull fingers and belch the ABCs. 

Many people may blush or say "excuse me." But at the sound of oral and anal emissions, one local 2-year-old instead says "beeeep." Which is funny and cute until men in their 30s fart out loud ON PURPOSE just to hear the child’s response. 

I'm pretty sure the only other human to hear such a babel from my backside is my brother. And since we’re getting all share-y here, I should probably tell you that back then, I did it on purpose, and... on his head. Sorry brother.

I only find the audacity to write this from dooce.com and her recent post: http://www.dooce.com/2009/11/09/featured-community-question

And from my mom, who said her coworkers had a conversation about colon calamities and how they were such a faux pas. Well, ladies, it’s time to be silent no longer. We will pass gas and men will hear it.  

So I tooted. And then I blogged about it. It’s like my generation’s way of burning bras. 

So dear readers, it’s time to air it out, shoot the shit, make cheese. Are women still feminine if they fart? What if they just TALK about farting? Do you pass gas in front of your man or does your lovely lady launch a wiffer in front of you? And if so, is it cute, gross, sexy? What do you think?

chin deep

Differences are more than chin deep.

They’re in our heads too.

I make fun of the silly things country people do and while they’re infrequent, I make fun of silly things city people do too.

But today, I’d like to share with you one of the biggest differences between people from cities and people from no where.

In the city, we learn at an early age to mind our business and not meddle in the lives of others. Sure, we read tabloid headlines and smut magazines as much as anyone else. But we don’t run around telling people how hung over we are and how we just can’t stomach curry like we used to.

But it’s more than that.

In the city, we don’t share the quirks and intricacies about ourselves that we find unflattering.

In the country, everyone knows all that about you. They know you were the pimply-faced kid in high school and they know your parents bought your back-to-school clothes second hand. But there, it doesn’t really matter.

In the country, men ask pregnant women questions like, “So, yer tits hurt yet?” and expect an honest answer.

Women berate their husbands in public and sometimes, they even play darts with their butts.

So, in the few months I’ve known Cowboy, I’ve tried to push his limits. How many relationships have you been in? Why didn’t they work out? What didn’t you like about them? What are your life’s ambitions? Why haven’t you conquered them yet? What do you want to be when you grow up? What do you think about religion? Who did you vote for? How do you feel about “Jon and Kate + 8?”

And he’s answered them. No hesitation. No sugar coating. Take it how you want, he practically says. This is who I am.

If I don’t like it, it’s better to know now right? I just find that so liberating.

Country people don’t limit their openness to pals, partners and girlfriends/boyfriends either. They share these facts... with CO-WORKERS. Letting the world AND your place of business know who you are, where you came from and not feeling ashamed... Laz-y Boys can’t rival that level of comfort.

So tomorrow I'm going to walk into work, announce my most recent bowel movement, and watch as my co-workers sigh in adoration. Can you handle that, rocking chair? Can you?

the addict returns

I'm traveling this Labor Day for a girls weekend in Omaha.

I'm pretty sure I can handle the traffic and navigating streets with more than one lane again. But don't let me in any malls.

Should I visit a Gap, New York & Company or Victoria's Secret, I don't think I'll ever get out.

I'm off to explora the Medora

Had someone grabbed me by the ear junior year and said, if you study journalism you'll spend your vacations doing this, I'd have taken them outside, rammed my fingers in their eyeballs and assaulted them with "Yo mama" jokes.

• Yo mama so bald you can see whats on her mind
• Yo mama so old she waitressed at the Last Supper
• Yo mama so fat she sat on a rainbow and skittles popped out

But just in case, I also would have changed my majors to aquaculture and soil science, naturally.

So when my friend Cookie up and left me for a job in Medora, North Dakota's No. 1 tourist destination, I knew I'd have to visit. So this weekend I am.

The story of the city goes like this: A young entrepreneur named Marquis de Mores founded the town in 1883. He named it Medora, after his new bride, Medora von Hoffman. The tale of their love and the city's foundation is supposed to be one of the most romantic ever told. But how it measures up to "Ghosts of Girlfriends Past" remains a mystery.

Frankly, I think it's manure. Quite literally.

See, Mores invested the money of his rich, city-slicker father-in-law into founding the town. He built a mansion for himself as well as stores, hotels and A MEAT PACKING PLANT. The city is still known as a CATTLE TOWN, reminiscent of the Ol' West.

What makes it worse, is this Medora von Hoffman, his wife, loved it there. She loved it so much, she told newspapers she would always remember Medora as home. Even though she was wealthy. And from New York. And should have known better.

So, basically this town is either so radical even city people like it, or Medora von Hoffman got one too many whiffs of methane.

I'll let you know next week.