Turning lemons into lemonade, or, My husband really missed his calling as a lawyer

Let me start by saying that if you're horrified by bathroom humor, and specifically, discussion of farts, this is not the post for you. Elizabeth, I'm talking to you, dearest.

For the rest of you, and particularly those of you who know me well, it's no secret that ours is a farty household. If there were some kind of Seven Wonders of the Bowel World, Jason's innards would easily claim a spot in the pantheon. The man eats more than anyone I've ever met in my life (yet he's still got a hot bod -- god bless him) and consumes combinations of food that would fell the heartiest of constitutions -- sandwiches consisting of creamed corn, onions marinated in italian dressing, huge slabs of cheese, and canned salmon, for example. He puts hot sauce on everything he eats (except my chicken piccata). He drinks alot of milk. He puts away copious quantities of bread.

And the results are predictable. He's got gas like no one I've ever encountered. And I grew up in a family of farters, so I'm not a shrinking violet when it comes to flatulence.

His farts are one of the few things we ever argue about. He'll let one fly, and it will smell horrible, and I will say, "Jesus, couldn't you leave the room or something?" and he'll say, "I didn't realize it was going to smell." Which sends me into orbit. "Really? You didn't think it would smell? Based on what, exactly? What precedent has ever been set for a non-smelly fart coming out of your ass?"

I don't mean to imply that I'm ever blameless in a similar scenario. Jason has even complemented me on the trumpet-like timbre of my farts. "They sound exactly like the ideal fart should sound like, baby!" And mine can be stinky on occasion.

Anyway, I've gotten to the point that I just don't feel like arguing about it anymore. I love my husband, smelly ass and all, and I don't want to spend my life having the same argument until one of us dies.

So we've settled into something of an uneasy truce. Jason makes an effort to step away from me when he has to pass gas, and I try to do the same. If we slip up and can't get out of the room in time, the other covers his or her nose and we try to laugh it off.

But I think I'm getting too lenient.

Last night we were watching TV, and Jason farted a couple of times, loudly. They didn't smell too bad, so I didn't say anything. Then I farted a little while later.

"Nice one, babe."

"Thanks, honey."

Silence for awhile. Then he farts again.

"I'm killing you, you know," he says, grinning proudly. "I'm up on you, like, 3 to 1 at this point."

I roll my eyes. "I didn't realize we were in competition." And then I fart, just for good measure. "3 to 2."

We turn our attention back to Friday Night Lights.

And suddenly, it dawns on me. He's turned the tables on me. By making it a competition, he's changed the rules so that the more he farts, the more he wins.

I quickly put an end to the game. But a part of me respects his ingenuity for slyly working it into our discourse, and almost getting me to buy into it.

Almost.