Lost My Mojo

Y'all. I have nothing to say. Not that that's ever stopped me in the past, mind you. But I seriously just have nothing to say that others aren't already saying better.

You've probably noticed the lack of mojo, seeing as I've been making like a sausage and--linking!

Yeah. It's that bad.

I was thinking today that maybe I should do the blog equivalent of one of those "memory compilation" shows. You know, where the writers are out of ideas for the season, so Ross and Chandler end up stuck in an elevator reminiscing--flashback!--flashback!. Or Archie and The Meathead are locked in the basement. Or Laverne and Shirley are locked in a meatlocker. Or Alex P. Keaton is getting ready to head to college and Elise Keaton needs to take one last trip down memory lane, lest we forget that time Skippy came by the house and...

But I don't know how to do that on a blog. And who's to say anyone wants to re-read crap you wrote in 2004? Hey! Remember that time I wrote about that person who annoyed me? Whoo! That was cool. Oh! Oh! And remember when I smacked Bill O'Reilly so hard on that topic he was talking about but knew nothing of? And when I posted those links to that funny website that time?! Oooh! Or the time I promised to stop swearing in my blog posts!? Man, that was good stuff.

Good times, good times.

Well, the solution to my dry spell is clear. I firmly believe that--when in doubt--you should always discuss dogs or farts, on the theory that the story will be heartwarming, funny, heartwarmingly funny or humorously heartwarming. And furthermore, who among us doesn't like a little bit of fart humor? So. With that in mind, I give you a post from 2005. About dogs AND farts.

You're welcome.

I was visiting my dear friend LA's house to talk business. So we went downstairs to her basement office to work on the computer. Her family dog, a large-and-in-charge creature who is potentially the sweetest (and BIGGEST) canine on the planet, joined us. He was so cute, just lying down behind my chair as we talked and worked at her desk.

All of a sudden, it was like Bhopal in that little office. (For those of you born too late, look up "Bhopal" and "Union Carbide" to get the reference. I'm not handing it out to you young punks! Get a work ethic, you little whippersnappers!)

Anyway--getting back to the "beef" of the story: it was like Bhopal in that office. My eyes watered. My throat closed. I could barely concentrate. So what did we do? We both pretended that it didn't smell at all. Why? Because neither of us was sure that it wasn't the other who had dealt it, and we were doing the "don't ask, don't tell" thing that women do. Guys? They just call it out: "Dude!! That is so rancid!" Women? We pretend it isn't happening.

And so the vow of silence continued and the smell eventually dissipated. (As my dad used to say when I objected to "a certain odor" in our house: "Take about 7 deep breaths and the smell will be gone!" He then laughed/cackled/guffawed like he had just said the funniest thing in the world short of "pull my finger." Niiiiice.)

Anyway. Once again getting back to the beef. Ten minutes passed in her office. Work continued. Ideas were hatched. Progress was made. And then it happened again. The odor. The unbearable odor. The so-thick-you-could-cut-it stench. And still we said nothing. NOTHING! Although this was the turning point. I stopped thinking it might be her and started worrying that she thought it might be ME. I kept talking about work, but my mind was racing about how to bring it up, how to make the point subtly that the fart was SO not me, how to not sound accusatory that it might be her, etc etc etc. My mind was going nonstop trying to figure out how to deal with the thing that had been dealt, to offer assurances that I would never be so disrespectful as to lay that kind of heavy deal on her in her own home without taking full responsibility for my actions.

As before, ten minutes passed, the smell dissipated, work continued, and then the odor returned with a vengeance. At that point I just decided that honesty was the best policy and said the following: "Okay. Not that I mind one single bit, but I just need you to know that that fart is SO not my brand. I think your dog is dealing them HARD. All I know is, it ain't me. Swear to god. If I ever need to drop a bomb, I swear I will let you know it is in the mail and/or delivered."

And then we had this little entente as women do. We promised each other with hugs and laughs to always be honest about our farts and to give full and fair warning with all deliberate speed if we are each about to lay down some heavy atmos on the other.

As I drove home I thought about how lovely dogs are. Even their nasty farts bring people together...