Pass Gas Here

21 Mar

It is Valentine’s Day. I walk downstairs to the breakfast table and discover a homemade crossword puzzle, part of my husband’s gift for me. As soon as Mister goes down for his nap, I sit down with my pencil and dive in. I quickly fill in things from our past: Hickory Crayfish = Crawdads, RIU drink of choice = Mojito, Wet Canadian boat = Maid of the Mist…the puzzle is full of things we’ve done, places we’ve been, and events significant to us. How romantic!  But, I’m embarrassed to say, a few clues have me stumped. Most frequented date site in Hickory? I don’t remember any dates. We were too poor and too busy. Pass gas here? Bathroom doesn’t fit. Neither do “Not the Bed” or “Not the Dinner Table.”* My husband would make the answer be “anywhere,” but that doesn’t fit either. That gets me thinking. Where is it okay to pass gas? That sounds like a story.

Where have your found your most suprising source of inspiration?

*This makes more sense if you have a little background. We only have a few house rules:
1. Take the trash out if you’re the one to fill the bag.
2. Replace the toilet paper roll if it is low.
3. Don’t pass gas at the dinner table, in bed, or in a car or other closed space (unless it is a trip longer than 3 hours).

My husband often breaks rule #3.


Posted by on March 21, 2011 in Inspiration and Ideas


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2 responses to “Pass Gas Here

  1. Ellen

    March 23, 2011 at 1:46 pm

    I thought the poll question was “Where is it ok to pass gas?” To which I would answer that it always seems to happen in quiet places like libraries.

    Libraries are happen to be where I get inspiration….or more accurately, in the books in libraries. I like to compare varieties of writing styles and I have several writers whom I want to be when I grow up.

    This is not a surprising source. I suppose that would be in the john…where I am also allowed to pass gas.

  2. Mary

    March 23, 2011 at 3:25 pm

    Animals. My friend Emma the Great Dane (the Greatest Dane, if you asked me) used to get into spectacular amounts of trouble: she was a 10-week old stray (think: Christmas present gone VERY, VERY wrong). She walked into the pound’s “meet n’ greet” room, strolled over to the Christmas tree, and brought it down on herself. She also used to “frame” her brother, a tractable Golden Achiever. (She would steal sandwiches, eat the meat, and deposit the rest of the sandwich under Merlin’s nose so he got in trouble.) When she lived on a farm, she spent her days “managing” the farm and supervising the animals. She would swim in her pond and nudge the ducks from behind. She kept groundhogs out of her barn. She showed the horses how to trot and the cats how to hunt. When she moved to Highland Park (by herself; her Merlin and her cats went to live with their mom), I wondered if she was bored and lonely. She wasn’t allowed to swim in the pond OR the fountains. All those pesky “No Dogs Allowed” signs. She had to walk on a leash, which hampered her squirrel chasing. On walks, she could hear the lions roar and she would join in. So I used to think about what it would be like if she walked down the street and into the ZOO to put to use her animal management skills. Imagine a brindle Great Dane joining up with a school group, riding the escalator, and then strolling around the zoo trying to befriend the zoo’s residents. I had visions of my coming over to her house to find her, in the living room, with her new friend, the zoo’s moose.

    Roxy and Bridget tear around the house ala Calvin and Hobbes. I’m fairly sure I’m going to come home to find them hammering nails into the coffee table or calling out for pizza. As it is, Bridget can hop up onto the counter and eat food we keep up on top of the fridge, a feat Roxy regards with both fear and awe. Fear: oooooooooh, you are going to get in trouble when mommy comes home! Awe: Heeeeeeyyyyyy, throw some of those down here, will ya?

    Bridget’s eyes glow red in certain lights and I think about her being the “monster under the bed” that scares some kid witless. Mom comes in and shows the kid that there are no monsters. Mom turns out the lights and the “monster” reappears, complete with snoring and sucking noises.

    Gwen used to be able to take doors off the hinges without damaging the door or the hinge. I would come home to find the dining room door neatly laying in the hallway and think “how did she DO that?” (A screwdriver maybe?) She could also escape blanket-covered babygates, doors, chair-barriers etc. The Magical, Mystical Gwendini probably spent her days figuring out how to negotiate the 4-5 barriers we put up to keep her upstairs and away from the front door (and its hinges.)

    She also used to chase deer and wild turkeys and seemed to hold the sincere belief that she could catch them. Gwen the Amazing Huntress chased a “deer” that turned out to be a fawn colored Great Dane. “Oh, pardon me, I thought you were someone else!”

    The moral in all of this? Adopt a dog.


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