flatuosity.

This is a story about men and women, about relationships, about intimacy. It's also about poo.

I am not particularly modest when it comes to bodily functions. Some might say it's because I wasn't raised right, and I call those people repressed. It's only recently that I've even developed any sort of notion that some things were meant to be kept private, at least in the view of other people raised in other families. Did you know that not everyone burps whenever they want, even when it would make them feel a lot better? I borrowed some deodorant once, and since I was wearing a sleeveless top, I went ahead and put it on in the kitchen. The owner of the borrowed deodorant looked downright shocked. I once had a girl tell me that she had never seen her mother naked. I've seen my mother naked. I suspect it's like looking into the future.

It's all a matter of what you can stand, I guess. I want to be able to be myself. I wouldn't burp in front of the queen, or even in front of Josh's mom, but when I'm around family or friends, I don't want to have to worry. After all, we're all human here.

However, I have a thing about number two. At my house, we were not allowed to say "fart," because it was a crude word. We were to say "flatulence." The act of releasing "flatulence" was known as "flatulating," and if you were "flatulating" quite a lot, you were "flatulent." Maybe it was all a lesson in word forms, in which case I'm very sorry we didn't also use "flatuosity." While the act of flatulence might be unavoidable, to laugh about it was potty humor, and therefore beneath us. Girls on my high school basketball team used to make jokes about farts and stinking up the bathroom, but those always made me blush. I thought those girls were not raised right.

So when other people made jokes, it would just embarrass me. For them to make them about me and my bodily functions would cause me to melt right into the floor in a big puddle of shame. I can think of no greater mortification. The first time I farted in front of Josh, I wanted to cry (he laughed). I hate to poop in public bathrooms, for fear that the noise and smell would reach the noses and ears of others, even complete strangers. I'm happy to be human in most other ways, but when it comes to solid waste, I'd rather no one else know anything about it.

Some people in this position might try and be more lady-like in other areas, however, I'm just trying to undo any good breeding that I might have accidentally gotten. I'm tired of the stress that comes from worrying about whether my own boyfriend knows that I poop. I'm not farting on purpose, nor do I necessarily want to get to the "let-er-rip!" stage. I just want to be comfortable around someone I plan on getting older with, because I hear that flatuosity increases with age. I think it's ridiculous for me to have this one hang-up, when Josh and I have been through a lot of the unbearable grossness of being together.

I want you to understand that it makes me very, very uncomfortable to even write about this. But I wanted to tell you about what happened Sunday night, because I think it's kinda funny. In a few years, it might be really funny. Or I might delete the entry tomorrow.

Josh was lying on the futon in the living room, I was in the bathroom. I came out and asked timidly, "Honey? Do we have a plunger?"

Now, I know perfectly well that we do not have a plunger. I moved every last thing into that house, and I would have remembered that. This was me being hopeful, because I knew that if we did not have a plunger, then something else would have to be used.

"No, why?" He knew why. We were skirting the issue here.

"Can I make a request?"

"What?" He was scared of what I might possibly ask after I had asked after a plunger that he knew that I knew we did not have.

"Can I request that when you blow your nose, you put your tissue into the trash, not the toilet?" See, this was the real problem. He had a cold, and there was a lot of accumulated tissue in the toilet. Now, I had added more stuff to the toilet when I'd been in there, but that stuff was still floating in circles in the increased water levels, while the glob of tissue was poking out the drain hole.

He looked sheepish. "Is it clogged?"

"Yes."

"What about a wire coat hanger?"

"But...there's poo." That was so hard for me to say then, and so hard for me to write now. I felt like a little kid who had messed his pants and didn't want to tell on himself, but had to if he ever wanted the situation fixed.

"Oh."

Now here, we had a little standoff. Most any time there is any sort of thing that needs to be done around the house, he offers to do it. He likes to change light bulbs and paint the tall walls and fix the dimmer switch. I'm capable of doing those things, but he always steps up, usually without my asking. Those are manly things, he is the man, that's why he gets the bigger pork chop at dinnertime. His lack of an offer to fix the toilet situation was noticeable.

I knew that if I asked him to do it, he would and without hesitation. But I did not want to ask him, because then he would have to be poking around in the toilet, while evidence that I, just like everybody, poop, floated around before his eyes. I could not stand the indignity. I did not want to deal with the situation any more than he did. However, the possiblity that he might do it, and what he would see, was even worse, even though the whole situation was CLEARLY HIS FAULT.

So I didn't ask. And he didn't offer. He did help me find a wire hanger. Thankfully, it was not a tough clog, and it went through after only a little poking at the tissue glob. I threw away the hanger, washed my hands very thoroughly, and wrote "plunger" on my shopping list. Then I joined Josh on the futon.

"You usually offer to do manly stuff."

"I'm not good at plumbing. Your brother works in septic, so you're better at that stuff. It's genetic."

"I see."

"I would have done it if you had asked."

"I didn't want you to see my poop."

He giggled. We snuggled.