Pathogen: Germ. From Greek, meaning “gives birth to suffering.”
Last Friday afternoon I came home from teaching, turned up ABBA as loud as I could stand, made chocolate peanut butter crispy treats, painted my toenails an outstanding, luminescent shade of fuchsia, and danced around my house like an idiot. It was a wonderful night and I was deliriously happy, but unfortunately, by the time ten o’clock rolled around I was just plain delirious. It was the start of a flu that has had me down for four days.
So, wrought by pathogens, I didn’t have much hope for this Misbehaving Tuesday. While I have not been suffering for the past few days -as any Buddhist will tell you, pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional- I have been extremely uncomfortable. By this morning I was feeling at least well enough to do the grocery shopping, but only after I recovered from getting dressed by sitting down for an hour. And I will have all of you know that I did not get any produce on this trip because I could possibly (although doubtfully) still be contagious and I did not want to touch anyone else’s produce directly. I am NICE.
Even unwell on a cold, rainy day that felt more like November than May, I couldn’t let the day pass without a some misbehaving. Since I had to wear shoes anyway, I also wore my misbehaving socks.
As the day went on, I started feeling better. Misbehaving is a powerful healer, as are green tea and popsicles. Also tremendously healing is the sight of a slug hitching a ride on a wiener dog. This just happened as I was starting this post.
I love slugs. I don’t care what anyone says. Slugs are awesome.
Anyway, this post is really my last hope for any solid misbehaving for the day, so I better wrap it up with something good. I was looking through some files earlier, and found a short bit I wrote back in the days of Weekly Writing Assignment. The assignment was to write an argument. I wrote one about farts. (For those of you who have been around for a bit, this is a repost from September.)
And now, for your misbehaving pleasure, farts.
—
“Oh my GOD, would you please contain yourself?” Leanne stood at the door to the kitchen with her arms crossed.
“What do you mean?” Frank was tying up the garbage bag.
“I could hear you all the way in the bedroom.”
“Hear what?”
“You. I could hear you.”
Frank pulled the ends of the garbage bag tight, and shimmied it out of the trash can. “What do you expect me to do? I can’t help it.”
“Of course you can. The first year we were dating I was at your apartment all the time and I heard you fart maybe once. Now, every morning, it’s a freaking serenade. Frank’s Ass in D Minor.”
“Well, sorry.”
“It’s not sexy, you know.”
“It doesn’t smell. That’s the garbage.”
“I’m not talking about the smell. When we were dating, back when you were still trying to impress me, you went out of your way not to fart in front of me. You knew it wasn’t exactly a turn on.”
“I wasn’t in front of you. I was in the kitchen. You were still asleep.”
“Yeah, until your ass woke me up.”
“Oh come on. It wasn’t that loud.”
“Really? Ceramic tile and wood floors, Frank. It’s like someone blasting a bugle into a steel drum.”
“Hey, just because you never fart doesn’t mean I should have to run outside or something.”
“I just… control myself. You could, too. You used to. And when you didn’t, you ran the tub.”
“Oh, you figured that out?” Frank smirked.
“It took a while. For the first few months I thought you were a little OCD, showering like six times a day.” Leanne shrugged, and looked over Frank’s shoulder out the window.
“Huh. Maybe it would have been better if you just heard it back then.”
“No. It would not.” She crossed her arms again. “You controlled yourself because you were trying to impress me, and I would like to think that I am still worth impressing.”
“If I wanted to still be dating you, I wouldn’t have married you.”
“Please. I want to find you sexy, and your ass gas isn’t sexy. I am doing you a favor here. You want me to be attracted to you, right? So, control yourself, would you?”
Frank rolled his eyes, held the garbage bag in front of him, and walked toward the back door. Leanne followed. “Well?” she asked.
“Great, you’re not attracted to me anymore?” Frank opened the door and set the garbage bag on the porch.
“Not when you’re farting.”
“Well, wait a minute. How much time in any given day am I actually farting?”
“That’s not the point. It takes a while for the fart exposure to wear off, you know. When I hear you fart I can be turned off for anywhere from one to forty-eight hours.”
“What’s the average? If it’s only in the morning, and only for a few hours, I can live with that. We’re getting ready to go to work then, anyway.” Frank was setting a new garbage bag in the can, and Leanne returned to the doorway.
“Thanks.” She leaned against the doorframe.
“So, maybe what I could do is just control it on Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday evenings, after dinner. Keep us right on schedule.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Ok, maybe Sunday afternoons, too.”
“I can not believe we are having this conversation. Would you just be civilized and control yourself? Please? For me?”
“Fine. On Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday nights, and Sunday afternoons, I will be civilized. But the rest of the week… strike up the band.”
Leanne scowled.
“Oh come on, if I’m civilized three nights a week and one afternoon, I have to blow off a little steam the rest of the week. So to speak.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Here’s what we can do. I’ll be civilized on Wednesday, Friday and Saturday nights and Sunday afternoons if you’ll clean your hair out of the drain on, say, Monday, Thursday, Saturday and Sunday mornings.”
“Oh, FINE. No, wait. This is ridiculous.”
Frank returned the garbage can to the cabinet under the sink, paused for a moment as he leaned over the cabinet door, then looked up at Leanne with a pained expression.
“Frank? Are you ok?”
Frank smiled. “You’re welcome.”
