She’s Like the Wind.

I spent a dinner out with friends last night and happily farted up a storm at our table the entire time.

Don’t judge. I was very discreet. Plus, we were with close friends. You know, the kind who would say something if they suspected.

If they had spoken up – and trust me, this crowd would have had to qualms about it – I would have excused myself to take the over-the-counter medicine I keep in my purse.

Have I ever mentioned the medical-related contents of my ultimate bag of holding purse? No?

Ibuprofen. Tissues. Travel-sized roll of toilet paper. Two types of antacid, one for regular use and one for when the heartburn gets really bad. Lotion. Antibiotic wipes. Lip balm. Hand sanitizer. Gas reducer. A pill box with a calcium tablet, a multivitamin, and a few other supplements. I think there’s even still a Valium from my last dentist visit a few weeks ago.

I am just one unwrapped, lint-covered hard candy away from being my grandmother. (Don’t even get me started on the small pharmacy on the night table next to my side of the bed.)

So I had the gas reducer with me last night, but I didn’t take it. I’ve always been of the opinion that short of a major life event – a job interview, wedding, court appearance, meeting the President, etc. – gas should be set free. It’s a natural body function and constantly putting a cork in it is bad for your health.

That got me to thinking that since my chances of being in a situation which requires absolutely zero farting is pretty slim these days, it’s probably time to stop carrying that particular packet of pills. I pulled them out when we got home and …

… it had expired.

Wait … when did I stop caring enough to take it?

Shit. The purse is just a symptom. I’ve turned into THAT old lady.

Don’t say I haven’t. The signs are obvious to anyone looking. I audibly groan when I get in to or out of bed, a chair, or a car. I have a favorite daily talk radio show. I express surprise, disdain, and joy aloud in public, even when I’m alone. I make PB&J sandwiches with a high fiber, seven seed mix and sugar-free jelly … on a low-carb, whole wheat tortilla.

I think Hipsters go to an awful lot of trouble and expense to look bad (or like my Dad circa 1973, when it was actually in fashion to look that kind of bad) and Millennials are spoiled brats who don’t “get” hard work. I don’t understand why a passenger in my car / dinner companion / business associate can’t put their phone down for two minutes, let alone for the duration of the ride / meal / meeting. I use coupons. Coupons.

I chase alley cats out of our yard with whoops and hollers. I read food labels. I go to happy hours and early-bird dinners to save a few bucks. I take advantage of AAA, NPR, and other member discounts. I call out people who are rude, passive-aggressive, or outright annoying, even when they’re not doing it directly to me. I have a pair of reading glasses – sometimes two – in every room of the house. I listen to podcasts or talk radio instead of music and the TV plays news, Discovery ID, or TCM all day.

My last post was about a cranky old lady who confronts a homeless person and this one is about one who farts through a meal. No one knows how to drive, I don’t WANT to upgrade my phone, and holy shit, can you believe kids these days?!


You can lie to my face and say I’m not all that old – it’s appreciated, even – but I won’t kid myself.

And don’t go by my photo here. That “current” photo is from 2008.

“I’ll get around to a site update sooner or later,” said the old lady who does it every 6 years.

Nobody puts Baby in a corner.

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