Friday, March 28, 2014

Mona and Me

I have an old horse, Mona.  We don’t know her exact horse age (around 33-36 years old).  In people years Mona would be somewhere between 90 and 105. We call her bony Mony because she is skin and bones and refuses to put on any weight.  Mona still gets around well considering her age.  Occasionally, she might even gallop (really a slow trot) in the pasture.   I was watching her in the pasture today and I had to laugh when she took off after one of the other horses.  Every time Mona’s back legs hit the ground she backfired.  It sounded like she had a pellet gun strapped to her behind. 

As I watched Mona, it reminded me of, well, me!  I get out of bed in the morning and the walking farts practically propel me to the bathroom.  It’s not just the farting problem that plaques old biddies like me and Mona.  Come to think of it, I wonder if anyone has ever done a study on whether old female horses have bladder control issues?  I’ve never seen Mona laugh, but I bet she’d pee herself if she did!   I don’t think it’s just me that has these problems.  Some of my closest friends have admitted that they are considering buying stock in bladder control products.  No one wants to admit to the farting problem but I know it exists because I’ve walked behind a group of old people and it sounds like the orchestra trumpet section warming up.  If it’s not old age, then it must be heredity because my much older sister seems to have some exhaust issues as well. 

Just the other day we were leaving a restaurant when my 250 lb. brother-in-law, John, took a dive off a short step.   He didn’t see the step and went flailing into another table of diners.  I cannot find the words to describe the look of terror on their faces as John was hurling himself headfirst into their salads.  It was a scary scene – to say the least.  John’s fall was broken by a quick thinking man at the table who attempted to catch him.  Luckily, the man was able to maintain some semblance of control and did not end up under John as he face planted on the ground.  Thankfully, the only thing John injured was his pride.  After assuring the manager that John wasn’t going to sue the restaurant, we made a discreet exit.

By the time we got to the sidewalk, my sister, Lorraine, and I had started to laugh (we just couldn’t help ourselves).  My daughter, Lulu, gave me a sharp look and told me I’d better stop laughing right away.

  “Mom!” she reprimanded, “You know what happens when you laugh too hard!” 

Well, as soon as Lulu reminded me of my laughing problem, my sister started hiccupping which made us all laugh harder.  We looked like a bunch of drunks who couldn’t hold our liquor as we laughed our way to the parking lot.  When we reached the parking lot, my sister started farting.  Every laugh and hiccup was followed by a fart.  This, of course, caused me to laugh even more.   I just couldn’t stop myself and, despite wrapping my legs in knots, I peed my pants.  It was humiliating!  There we stood - Lorraine laughing, farting and hiccupping and me laughing and peeing while Lulu and John looked desperate to escape the whole scene.  They quickly took off for the car leaving Lorraine and I in the middle of the parking lot unable to move for fear of farting and peeing even more.  Thankfully, no one was around to witness this humiliation.

John must have felt bad for us because he pulled the car up and asked if we needed a ride.  Lulu had put plastic over the back seat so I could sit.  Lorraine and I managed to throw ourselves in the car – still laughing.  Lulu looked mortified and John sarcastically commented that he was glad we all had a good laugh at his expense. 

“Hey, Lulu.”  I said, “Do you think Mona pees herself when she laughs?” 

“Mommmmm!”  Lulu rolled her eyes. “You’re embarrassing!” 

Maybe I am embarrassing.  Maybe I do have a few plumbing issues.  But, at least I can laugh about it.  I can laugh all I want and fart and pee as much as I want because I have an AARP card and I’ve done my time.  Come to think of it, Mona and I have a lot in common.  I bet if I trotted around the pasture, I’d sound like a pellet gun too.  And, frankly, I don’t give a damn!