December 10, 2008
Every now and again I take a proverbial step back and say to myself: Wow. I can't believe I just did that. I must really love my husband after all.
Whether it's bringing a fancy bagged lunch to his office, helping him balance the books at work, or letting him touch my beautifully sculpted bum for half a second, I'm always amazed at the love I feel for a man with a disgustingly horrific gas problem.
Last night, when Jared came home from work, I happily hung his coat in the front closet and led him to the dinner table. "You're in for a treat" I said, as I filled his bowl with homemade soup and slathered a slice of sweet potato bread with way way too much butter. "It took me three hours to make that bread you know."
Jared anxiously took his seat and was hungrily slurping his soup within three seconds. "Ooooohhhh Amy," he said, "You have totally [FART] outdone [FART] yourself tonight. How did I ever get so lucky [LONG FART]?"
I was silent.
"Seriously babe," he continued, "this soup is soooo [FART] fantastic."
I was still silent.
"What's in this stuff [HUGE FART]? Is it turkey sausage?"
"You know," I said, "it hurts my feelings when you pass insane amounts of gas during dinner. These aren't hot pockets, Jared. I cooked this all from scratch."
Then my husband thoughtfully and respectfully explained to me that gas is natural--an urge that he's plain old unable to fight. And being a red blooded woman, I started to cry--very hard. Because du-uh, I'm totally under appreciated by this caveman.
And then, fourteen hours later, I was surprised to find myself on the phone, liquidating an old out-of-state pension account. I used the cash to buy my beloved a ridiculously overpriced Christmas present, because du-uh, I'm completely in love with this man. Bowel problems and all.