Who Farted?

As a Grannie of boys, I learned that farts offer hours of endless entertainment.

One day the boys were taking turns photographing each other. I wasn't paying much attention until T looked at me with complete sincerity and asked,

"Grannie, do you want me to take a picture of your butt?"

Umm... no thank you. Why do you ask?

"Look! We're using Snapchat to make fire shoot out of our butts when we fart. You want one?"

I politely declined the photo shoot but couldn't stop laughing at the question.

A few years later, when my romance with Alby began, I discovered the fascination with farts never really goes away.

Whenever I'd smell something and look at him, he'd shrug innocently.

"Wasn't me. I don't fart."

As if I was actually going to believe that.

"Sir," I'd tell him, "you should've at least blamed it on the cat. I own my farts."

One morning he smiled and said,

"I thought you were shooting me with an air gun last night."

Now I was the one looking confused.

We'd been innocently spooning, drifting off to sleep.

No sounds.

No smells.

Just...

poof.

A tiny puff of air.

A few seconds later...

poof.

"I thought you were doing target practice," he said.

That was it.

I laughed until I couldn't breathe.

The more I laughed, the more he embellished the story.

So if you've ever wondered why we laughed so hard together...

Well...

Apparently we were a remarkably gaseous couple.

Love isn't always candlelight.

Sometimes it's blaming the other person for your fart and laughing until neither of you can breathe.