The Musical Fruit

I've had a great Saturday, and I owe it all to my friends.

First I played tennis this morning, and realized that I haven't lost my backhand. Good moment.

Then, my fellow Army wives came to my house to cook, goss, and watch movies.
Good times.

One of my friends (Thanks Emily!) brought the BEST million-bean taco soup. It was tasty. I gorged myself on beans. Then, revisiting our adolescence, the conversation drew to the magical, mystical, musical properties of the bean.

Ah, my friend, the bean. I love beans. I love black beans and brown rice, I love mung bean paste, I love refried beans, garbanzo beans. I'll stop here, as this could become a "Bubba Gump shrimp" moment for me. So, I love beans.

I'm amazed at the recent re-vamp of the governmental RDA charts, and the pedestal upon which they have placed the bean, in a near-revelatory manner of awe. "Beans! You fight cancer! Beans! You fight constipation! Beans! Beans! You fight obesity! Yea! We, congress, just spent $34,687,456 of your tax dollars to let you know... WE LOVE BEANS!" Well, Mr.Representative, I've known that all along, and it cost me nothing to find out how groovy beans are.

What do we think of when we think of beans? Elementary school, or course! "Beans, beans, the magical fruit. The more you eat, the more you..." well, you get the picture. Now I'm gonna get sophmoric. Humor based on our very-base bodily functions never ceases to amuse me. I was meant to be the mother of boys, you know. Why is it that something we all do has such disgrace in it's very nature? Why couldn't we say something like "bless you!" or, "gesunteit!" when someone passes gas? Maybe we could say, "Good colon!" Perhaps a "bless your bowels!"

I talk a big talk. I will laugh with my four year old as he toots up two flights of stairs. I will nearly pee-my pants with laughter when my sister in law boofs while jumping on the trampoline. I guffaw when I hear an athlete be a little too-audible in the middle of performance. While in a technique class at school (dance), I was shocked beyond laughing by the guest choreographer who proudly let the gas fly in the middle of music-free improvisation. So, amidst all my gleefull laughter, why do I hang my head in disgrace when my bowels want to say hello?

I've had a couple of really disgraceful moments in that regard that I have been too ashamed to own up to until now. The first was prom night, spring of 1994. The perfect day with High-School-boyfriend. We skiied all day, went to a great restaurant, and danced the night away at the venue until we decided to go back to his house to "watch a video." Yup, you know the code. That means: "To make out." So, while we were "watching a video," I farted. I couldn't blame it on the dog, he had no dog! I couldn't blame it on the fire, it was down to embers! I tried to pass it off as coughing. Nope, not the same noise. So, what did I do? I slapped my thigh and coughed. "There!" I thought to myself. "Maybe he'll think that's what that was." Uh, no. There was no cough good enough, no throat-clearing believeable enough, and what the hell was I thinking when I slapped my thigh? Time stood still. The "video watching" stopped momentarily. I swore he cleared his throat, trying to think up SOMETHING to say. Nothing in spoken language could have been uttered to assuage my wounded ego and deflated pride. WE never spoke of the incident.

The second incident wasn't nearly as mortifying, but embarrassing all the same. When my man and I were engaged, we were "watching a DVD" (technology has evolved, code remains the same) when he leaned over, rolled on top of my stomach and gave me a firm squeeze around the middle. Not a bad idea normally, but that night we ate, YES! the musical beans at a great Mexican joint. Upon applying the right amount of pressure, my stomach reacted like an untied balloon being set free. Explosive in nature, lengthy enough to be heard throughout the house, there was no stopping that gas. Luckily, my man and I had been on "those terms" since our second date, as he let one fly that fateful night. I just looked at him and said, "Wow, farting terms already? You must really like me, or totally disrespect me." So, back to the infraction in question, he thought it was hilarious. I was mortified. At that point he squeezed me AGAIN trying to duplicate said infraction.

Now, one last point on this disgusting topic. Guys, I'm totally exposing one of your greatest dating secrets. Getting the car door for your date. It's not chivalry, ladies. He's out there letting his "date belly" relax and violate the parking lot. Did you ever wonder why a date was outside the car for a while? He had TOO much gas. I know, he probably blamed it on his "cell phone," or "had to stretch." Right. He was stretching something.

Oh beans. You magical fruit. I continue to eat you, my favorite food, and you continue to amuse me.