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.”

—

“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.”

2. I spent a few weeks thinking that I want to grow my hair out again because short hair makes me look old. I got some assurance that my haircut is in fact, quite youthful, and after ruminating about things like taking longer than fifteen seconds to style my hair, and always having pieces of hair stuck to me, and always having hair stuck to the floors and in the drains, I decided to stick with the lesbo / tomboy / pixie / Audrey Tautou do. Also, everytime I see Audrey Tautou’s name, I can’t help but think of Tauntauns.

3. Charmuth Road shall henceforth be known to me as Magical Old Fart Road, because I swear, every time I am in a hurry and have to drive down that street, an old fart in a living room sized car magically appears, driving at about twenty-three miles per hour.

4. The same twenty by twenty yard that was recently being mowed by a tractor is now full of children playing a game that I am guessing is called SHRIEKING HELLCHILD!!!, while one of the resident adults practices playing the chainsaw.

I. Unwigged and Unplugged: Christopher Guest, Harry Shearer and Michael McKean at the Lyric

Cost
$11 for parking (We had free tickets.)

Crowd
Nerdy. A smattering of hipsters, but mostly nerds of all ages. I saw a guy un-ironically wearing a Transformers sweatshirt. It was nice to be among my people.

Highlights

• A dramatic reading of NBC’s proposed edits to Spinal Tap for late-night television in 1985.
• Everything that Harry Shearer said.
• Corn Wine, which is still stuck in my head.
• The original Spinal Tap cheese trailer.

Lowlights

• It was tough to hear some of the lyrics
• I looked kind of lame. It would have been a good excuse to put on one of the many fabulous vintage dresses sitting in my closet that I am itching to wear, but I was so exhausted that I couldn’t deal with changing before we left.
• The guy next to me was resplendent in cologne. By the time we left I felt like I was getting bronchitis.

Misc.

• I saw a couple of women with hair kind of the way mine used to be, and I was glad to no longer have a hairstyle that takes three hours to dry.
• Good sattire is art.
• Nerd crowds really are the best.

II. Bruce Springsteen and the E. Street Band at the Star Pavilion in Hershey Park

Cost
$232.80 + $11.00 for parking, gas to and from Hershey.

Crowd
White. More lesbians than I would have expected. (Not to say that before major events I sit around contemplating the potential lesbian density for the evening, but it was, nonetheless, surprising.)

Highlights

• Bruce’s energy during a show is inhuman. While the music is not my style, good lord, that man puts on a show like no one I have ever seen. It worth it just to see that kind of performance.
• One of the last songs featured not one, but TWO ACCORDIONS.
• Even twenty-five years after Born In The USA (which thankfully he did not play), no one inhabits the back half of a pair of jeans like the boss. That is some righteous tush.

Lowlights

• We were in section “H,” which apparently stands for, “Hey I can’t see anything.”
• Everytime the crowd started hooting “Bruuuuce,” all I could think of was, “They’re saying Booo-urns.” Early in my relationship with Scott, I wondered if the fact that he could not also carry on lengthy conversations comprised entirely of lines from the first ten seasons of The Simpsons would come between us. Usually it does not, but last night I had a big case of pop culture reference blue balls.
• Some one in front of us had wicked bad gas during the encore.
• It took an hour to get out of the parking lot. I wanted to go to sleep in the car, but Scott asked me to keep him awake, so I sang song from 70s TV shows.

Misc.

• I did not know this until last night, but Bruce’s music is an aphrodesiac for white people. There was more making out and ass-grabbing than I’ve seen at concert in a long, long time, maybe ever. The ass-grabbing was particularly widespread. Perhaps it was the influence of that righteous tush.
• Living with some one who always has samples of non-perishable foods in the back of his car is very handy during a late night traffic jam.
• Landshark beer tastes like beer. I really like it. It doesn’t have overtones of anything, or one characteristic that overpowers all the others. It just tastes like great big capital B Beer.

The lingering gastritis (from back in December) had me on Prilosec for several weeks, and then Aciphex for the past month. The Prilosec sort of worked and the Aciphex REALLY works, but not without having just about every non-fatal side effect available. The excessive gas and weight gain have been particularly noteworthy. The fine print might as well read: Warning! Some users may become profoundly unattractive as a result of taking Aciphex. Please consult your physician if symptoms last longer than aaaah! Could you maybe just read this in the dark? And light a match while you’re at it.

Anyway, the pound a week weight gain has really pissed me off. Despite tripling my physical activity (and them some) and getting my diet right back where it should be, I’m still gaining. I thought I was done with weight loss mode, but alas, here I find myself in weight loss mode just to keep it to a pound a week. It sucks, and I am hoping that once I get off this stuff maybe I’ll get some retroactive benefits of all of the weight loss behavior. Also, complaining to the internet has to make this better. It just has to. Otherwise, why would so many people do it?

So, as of yesterday, my dose has been halved, and in another couple of weeks (pounds?) I hope to halve it again and shortly thereafter be completely free of it. In the mean time, COMPLAINT.

In related news, last night Scott and I heard an add for an allergy medication with the most awesome side effect information ever. “Extended use of [whatever] may cause dry mouth, strange taste, dizzyness… and so on.” Does that mean if I take this stuff for allergies, I may start wearing polka dots and plaid together? Or develop a strong urge to put Elvis wallpaper in my bathroom? Now, those are some side effects I could handle.

*pun intended.

2. The other night I farted and it sounded exactly like the noise my cell phone makes when it is set on vibrate. I can not begin to describe the bizarre combination of impulses this triggered. No one expects a ring tone to come out their ass.

3. The teacher training is over. I am relieved to be free of the obligations and I am looking forward to teaching, but I will miss it. I have very rarely ever fit in with a group of people. I’m weird, and that is fine with me. I didn’t fit in here, either, but I was completely accepted, just as I am, weird and all. Lovely.

4. I remember when I was in high school, there were times that I would get mad at a class, and tired and overwhelmed, and I would intentionally not study for an exam or finish a paper. Almost every time this happened, I would go into school the next day to find that the teacher was unexpectedly absent, or decided to extend the deadline for some unknown reason. My mother used to tell me that I was the luckiest person on earth. Likewise, I was having a spaz over the weekend about the amount of classwork I needed to do for Monday, plus I had to get ready to teach yoga Monday morning, and do my last workstudy shift Monday night. Lo and behold, by Sunday afternoon, Chris -in a move totally out of character- decided to cancel all of the Monday morning classes because of an impending snowstorm, and on Monday morning, he cancelled the afternoon classes as well, so no workstudy shift. The instructor for the photoshop class pretty much gave me a pass on turning in the assignment late, and as it turned out, with all of the extra time, I was finished with it just a few hours after the deadline anyway. I’m still scrambling just a little bit to get all of my classwork done and recover from my February frenzy hangover, but things are starting to settle a bit.

5. I just looked at my calendar, and other than classes and work and the regular stuff, there are lots and lots and LOTS of empty squares over the next two months. Joy! It’s been total mayhem for eight months. I can’t wait to do nothing.

It’s vagina farts.

Specifically, it’s the intake of air by the lady parts that occurs involuntarily during inversions, inevitably followed by involuntary expulsion of that air upon return to earth. My teacher handled the question with her usual humor and candor, going so far as to mimic the noise with her face, and assuring us that it doesn’t matter how many kegels one does, or how strong one’s mulabandha becomes, there’s no controlling it. I was relieved to learn that it happens to most women, not just me. In fact, her answer was followed by a ten minute discussion about farts during class in general, and a mini queef confessional. One woman told a story about trying to excuse herself from a class when she was about to deflate, and instead, as she put it, “queefed my way out the door.”

The weekend was a great release – fasting and lots of active, crazy meditations – but really, once you have a discussion about vagina farts in a room of thirty-four people, there’s no more holding back.