Thursday, May 03, 2007

Bella Bottom Burp
Yep, that's me: a walking, talking Butt Blasting Machine.
Some of you will know that farting and me are like tomatoes and basil; jam and cream; Lennon and McCartney; Paris and sluttony. No matter how hard I've tried, the odd 'parp' can escape during such events as karate training, running or even bending over in a hurry.
These, however, are mere hiccups compared to what's been produced right now and the picture included here of Dogadoo's buddies greeting each other would be a more attractive fragrance to inhale than anything I've emitted this past week.
The reason? One word = Detox. In deference to the old saying of 'treat your body like a temple', mine had been abused so badly that it whatever temple I possessed was gradually being built over as an inflatable castle at an amusement park. On holidays with Love Chunks, daughter Sapphire and my Mum last week I gutzed myself full of chocolate, wine, cheese, chips, steak, lollies, icecream, more chocolate, pastries and cake trying desperately to pretend that my stomach rolls were not big enough to store books in and that my clothes had mysteriously shrunk.
It was time for a detox, I decided, but this time I wasn't going to buy a stupid kit from the chemists, I was going to do it all myself. Since Saturday (six days and counting), I have virtually eliminated every single fun food from my life. No coffee, no milk or dairy, no meat, no wheat, no sugar (except honey), no lollies, no wine (or alcohol of any kind) and no chocolate.
Love Chunks is very kindly going along for the detox ride - at least in partaking of the evening meal. He is still enjoying his morning cappuccino from Mr Gaggia the coffee machine and his treasured glass or two of red at night. Oh and the post-dinner snack frenzy of chocolate or chips when the sensible little vegan meal has been digested and his stomach is crying out for something decent to eat.
Surprisingly, I have been coping with it all rather well. Chocolate does enter my thoughts every now and then (on approximately the same level as sex does for teenage males) but I have not taken a single bite. It takes a lot of internal positive talk to get excited about having a cup of liquorice tea, or convincing yourself that 4 dried figs are just as good as a faceful of smashed Easter Egg chocolate. Cheese and pasta would be nice but can be resisted but I am sorely missing having a good cup of coffee in the morning, more for the taste than for any improvement in my mood. Despite these sacrifices, I am finding that it's relatively easy to maintain the will to refuse any crap food right now.
This good behaviour of mine isn't being reflected by my stomach, or lower down..... If I thought I was a farty femme before, well now I'm at asphyxiation level. By bed time, my gut is so swollen you could drum on it and I daren't let LC poke me - not even in jest - because he runs the risk of popping a human balloon and seeing the room fill with a rotten egg vapour and his wife madly flying around the air, squealing.
Fortunately for me, this week my boss, Queen B, is out of the office and I've been able to set up her articles, books and files in relative privacy. This means that I don't have to spend my days (as per normal) sitting politely at my desk and, erm , cough, ahem ~pushing the refugees back on the boat~ and walking around as though I've just sat on a fencing post.
There I was yesterday, humming inanely, working in Queen B's office, letting a few ultra ripe ones rip whenever I felt like it. What freedom it was after the first few days of repression! I was also comfortable in the knowledge that the hammering, drilling and swearing of the builders putting in a new kitchen and office area on the other side of our floor covered any explosive aural emanations that were occurring. What I hadn't accounted for was visitors.
Poor, dear, sweet Jude. She had gone to my office to ask me something and had quickly deduced from the sounds of tuneless singing and clanging about that I was in the boss's office.
No sooner had she knocked and opened the door than she was confronted - no, that's too gentle a word - had her nasal passages completely and utterly raped and pillaged in a vicious, deathly and unprovoked attack no human should ever be forced to endure. "No Jude. For the love of all things holy - DON'T STEP THROUGH THE DOOR!"
Alas, it was too late. She smelt, she felt and she staggered slowly backwards her usually-smiling, kind face in a grimace of shock and pain. Not surprisingly, she rang in to say that she was going to work from home today......


Anonymous said...

this reminds me of the ripsnorter that involuntarily happened at yoga one night! oh the shame...

redcap said...

Death and taxes are not so certain as the result of farting in a hitherto empty space in an office. An excellent example is the photocopying room. You won't have seen anyone in 20 minutes, yet let one rip and the CEO will walk in and then walk out with watering eyes. But then not farting becomes painful, so it's the Catch 22 that Joseph Heller should have written.

Tom & Icy said...

Love the picture. You know, I have trouble remembering faces, but I never forget a butt.