Let’s do it. Let’s talk about something people don’t talk about. You want to? We totally should! Okay, here we go. Ready? No, really? Are you ready? Because I’m stalling, this is going to be one of those posts I’ll probably regret. Okay, here we go, for real this time…
Girls fart. Yeah, it’s true. We toot, pass gas, cut cheese, break wind, etc. There, now you know it’s true because I wrote it. And everything I write is true. All of it. So I’m here to tell you that chicks fart. Know what else? We know we fart in our sleep but we pretend we don’t because admitting it makes us want to die a thousand deaths. As long as we never talk about it, it’s like it never happened. Just like we don’t talk about that one time we got so fucking wasted we made out in front of a bar with a total dork we kept calling “my ginger prince”, and then had to be carried across the quad by four dudes because we were too drunk to walk. Never happened.
One of the MAJOR advantages of living on my own is I don’t have to hide this from anyone. I can go about my business while farting away the day – not that I do, but I could if I wanted to. I don’t have to go to bed hoping to Christ my boyfriend will pass out before I do so I can let one rip. A very quiet one that he won’t hear because I don’t want him to know. Farting in front of a significant other is akin to one of the worst things that could ever happen. Like losing a limb or Sarah Palin becoming president. I would never ever ever ever ever EVER date the type of guy who enjoys a Dutch oven. Not going to happen. As far as I’m concerned that type of shit (no pun intended) takes place in the bathroom.
For me it was always night time when the urge would creep up on me. I read books and articles on how to make the dreaded gurgle go away. I remember reading in a book that you could make the pressure in your belly stop by getting on all fours, and raising your butt in the air (ala downward dog). So imagine me running into the bathroom when I thought it was going to happen and assuming the position in hopes it would all end. It didn’t work.
One time I heard Dr. Drew and Adam Corolla talking about. Adam Corolla said when he felt it come on he would literally put one hand on each of his ass cheeks and try to hold them apart to reduce the noise. Picture the scene, I’m in bed with someone and it’s our first slumber party. I was so bloated it felt like I was carrying a gas baby, and I could feel the gas baby wanting to be born. I very quietly and gently grabbed my ass cheeks and prayed to the sweet baby Jesus the dude wouldn’t wake up. I spent the next 45 minutes as the puppet master of my ass. Not a pretty soon.
It took me years to figure out what was causing it: soda. Stupid, delicious, bubbly, yummy soda. The cups and cups of it I was consuming would settle in my stomach and wait for the most inopportune times to decide it was time to come up. Not once in the god knows how many years I drank soda did it occur to me that all those tiny bubbles had to come out at some point. It was after watching a show called “You Are What You Eat” that I learned that I was to blame for my own discomfort.
If you’ve never watched the show, it’s worth checking out. This faux doctor yells at fatties for having disgusting diets and then puts them on a restricted diet for two to three months. The best part is at the beginning of the show where she walks them into a room and there they see all the food they’ve consumed in a week laid out on a table. Here’s a clip of the show, scroll forward to about 4 minutes to see the table thing.
It’s absolutely disgusting to see what those tables look like. After that she analyzes their poo. Yeah, that’s right. They poop, she puts it in a giant tupperware, and then humiliates them on TV by telling them how disgusting, runny, and smelly their poo is. While my diet is nowhere as disgusting as that of people on the show, it has made me think twice when I think it might be time to go on a soda or French fry bin. Sure the food is delicious, but I hate the way my body works.
I still drink soda now, but nowhere as much as I used to. And you can bet your sweet bippy* I don’t drink soda on a first date or if there’s a remote possibility that there are naked times in my future. So there you have it. Catherinette farts.
But I don’t poop.
*What the hell is a “sweet bippy” and why do people bet them?