Friday Funny: Farting During an MRI

This came from The Huffington Post, but I couldn’t figure out how to share it properly, so it is just a cut and paste deal with the website link at the bottom of the page.  Hopefully, this is the first of many postings for me. Happy Friday!

(Thank you, Christina, for sharing this article on FB!)2014-10-24-fart.jpg

I share this true but pathetic story to commiserate with other tortured souls who relentlessly endure and survive extreme humiliation. We’re a group of accident-prone fools who regularly trigger embarrassing situations that would permanently traumatize a normal person. My experience this week will be difficult to surpass: I farted inside an MRI machine.

In medical terms, I had torn the meniscus cartilage that acts as a shock absorber between my shinbone and thighbone. In middle-age woman terms, two demons from hell invaded my body and lit fires in my knee and then danced around poking the raw nerves with electric forks. The pain was beyond intense, and the accident severely damaged my body so I couldn’t stand, walk, or even crawl to the wine bar.

Five drug-induced days later, I finally saw an orthopedic surgeon. He manipulated my knee until tears streamed down my cheeks and I threatened to tear off his arms. It should have been obvious that I was injured by the way I was ripping off chunks from the sides of the examination table. I silently vowed to add him as a nasty character in my next short story. Finally, some lovely angel gave me legal narcotics. Soon my ravaged leg was a big, bandaged joke, and I laughed and laughed.

A few days later I experienced the MRI – a magnetic resonance imaging procedure that uses a magnetic field and pulses of radio waves to make images of damaged ligaments and joints. A handsome young technician helped me into the tube of terror and strapped down my leg. I nervously remarked that a first name usually was required before I allowed anyone to tie me in a bed. He didn’t laugh but ordered me to hold still for 45 minutes. So there I was, in pain, suffering from claustrophobia, moving on a conveyor belt into the white torture chamber, and I didn’t have a clue how to remain motionless. And, to complete the distress, my only audience wasn’t amused by my jokes.

After about 20 minutes, I started to get anxious. I was tied down in a tunnel and could only hear strange beeping noises and grinding sounds. For all I knew, they were deciding which body parts to extract and sell on the black market. Then a queasy feeling predicted a pending passing of gas. I bit my tongue, pinched my side, and tried to focus on a pastoral scene in a green meadow beside a babbling brook. I could hear my mother’s advice: “Squeeze the dime.” I fidgeted.

“Please hold still,” came a voice from outside the shaft of shame.

I watched as the lights and numbers revealed how much time remained. Three minutes. I could do it! No! My body betrayed me at the one-minute mark. I was trapped and helpless so my nervous body did what it does best: it farted. I released gas with the intensity and conviction of a team of sumo wrestlers after a chili-eating contest. And the confined space caused the sound to be amplified as if a dozen foghorns had simultaneously activated. I didn’t know whether to cry, giggle, or call my son and brag.

“Well now, I think we have enough images,” the handsome technician said, suppressing a laugh.

The magic bed moved backwards into freedom, bringing along the putrid stench of decay. I was mortified as my imaginary meadow became a ravaged pasture full of rotting manure. What in the hell had I eaten? I avoided eye contact with the timid technician and hobbled back to the dressing room. Once again, I accepted my fate of being the perpetual, reluctant clown, the oddball, the one who farts during a complicated medical procedure.

If I ever need another MRI, I’ll request a facility in Texas. Everyone farts there.

By Elaine Ambrose



Channeling Bruce Banner?

At work today:

I opened the refrigerator door and looked at my food space and noticed my half loaf of Brownberry Country Oatmeal bread was gone.

What?!? I didn’t eat half a loaf since lunch YESTERDAY. It was just here on top of my ham!  Between the pears and the wall! Did someone move it?? (scanned kitchen counters and refrigerator drawers)  Eat it?? I’ll check the trash and see if the bag is there. Ick.

I could feel my heart rate increasing. Upon moving some K-cups and paper towels I noticed that sure enough the bag for my bread was in the trash. And twist-tied within was my half loaf.

What?!?!?!  Why in the world would someone throw away someone else’s bread?? What kind of colossal jerk face would do that?!?!

I pulled out the bread and rinsed off the outside bag. Heart pounding in my ears, OCD flipping out that MY FOOD WAS IN THE TRASH, it’s a good thing I can’t turn into the Incredible Hulk or I would have been standing in tattered slacks and heels in the office kitchen. Nearly in angry tears I took a breath and dried the bag off.  Then I couldn’t handle it anymore and pulled out the inner bag – thank you Brownberry for wrapping your bread in two bags, my OCD was soothed a bit.

I walked into the nearest attorney’s office, “Knock, knock. I don’t know why you might have, but did you by chance throw away the bread from the first shelf in the refrigerator?” I said sweetly, well as sweetly as a person can when all you want to do is start screaming down the hall about misogynistic jerks and disrespect of other people’s property.

He looked at me baffled, “No. Why would that happen? Has it gone bad?”

“No, it’s not blue, green or even stale. I was just checking. Thanks.” I moved on to the next attorney’s office and repeated my question.

“OH! I’m sorry, I thought that was mine.  I brought a loaf like that a few weeks ago and I thought it was that one and threw it out.” Staring at the half loaf under my arm and the still damp, empty bread bag and twist tie in my other hand. “I’ll buy you a new loaf. I’m sorry.”

“Nope, you threw your bread away with the ends still in it a week or so ago. Don’t worry about buying me more, it comes in two bags so it’s okay. Thanks.”  Then I walked back into the first guy’s office and filled him in on the situation, not that he was nearly incensed as I was, but he was curious as to why someone would throw away someone else’s bread.

In hindsight, I had to chuckle at my anger over a bread issue. Perhaps my hormones are a little out of whack.

Music to Our Ears

Last night I was hanging up P’s clothes, P was in her crib and B was standing over her playing.  He put his hands on either side of her and bounced the mattress while making noises at her. We’ve done this a lot in the last few weeks, but this time our little girl actually laughed. It was so stinking cute! It wasn’t a big belly laugh by any means, but it was clear as a bell laughter.  Brett paused and we looked at each other excitedly. He did it again. She laughed again. We were so excited. 20140916_202531

B and I are truly thankful that we were both there for her very first laugh. Such a precious moment.


Back in the Saddle Again!

P turned four months old on September 1st. I cannot believe how fast time is flying and how quickly our sweet girl is growing. It seems like she’s doing something new every day and I’m failing to document these magic moments.  No more! We are jumping into the middle of the spit-up!

Yesterday was P’s four month well check. She is 13 lbs. 8 oz. and 25 inches long. Her pediatrician is very pleased with her growth and development. She was oh so lucky enough to get some more vaccines yesterday and after two sticks to complete the process, our little girl was done crying in seconds. The nurse had time to dispose of her needles in the sharps container, but not even grab her laptop. P was over the crying quickly, but she was still not pleased with the nurse on her departure. No smile for her!

We gave her a bath before bed last night to help get her band-aid off. (She’s so good with baths now. July 24, 2014 was the first time she relaxed and enjoyed a bath, but it’s only been the last two weeks or so that P has not cried at all during or after her bath.)  I fed her while B read The World of Winnie the Pooh to us and then we tucked her in her crib. P slept all night – a full nine hours – before B and I had to go in and wake her up to prepare for our day.

As we made it through our regular weekday routine, I heard P working on a poopy diaper while I was finishing up with the critters. Finally I made it back to her chilling in her rock ‘n play. She sat there pleased as punch and when I lifted her leg to be sure she had pooped and was not just having a gas issue I saw the leak that ran down her sleeper leg. Lovely.

I scooped P and the blanket she was snuggled in up and we headed to her room for a full change.  That’s where I discovered my sweet, itty bitty girl had not only blown poop out a leg of her diaper, but had run it halfway up her back. Literally half way. Had she been wearing a bra, the band would have been soiled. So gross and on my clean baby! All I could do was laugh though. It was just everywhere and I couldn’t really decide on a great plan of poo attack, but I got her clean, stain treated the sleeper and blanket, and disposed of all the wipes and diaper. About ten minutes or so later we were finally out the door. Poo free.

I never ever believed that line parents spew, “It’s different when it’s your own.” Thinking Yeah, right! Poo is poo. Nasty!! And though I do not enjoy soiled diapers AT ALL, it really is different when it is your own sweet babe staring up at you with a gummy grin and making that gross mess.