Filed under: Posts | Tags: adulthood, aging. Time Magazine, alternative power, cancer, cosmetics, crop dusting, Farts, flatulance, gas, humor, Middle-Age, news new study, subourbonmom
Time Magazine recently had an article in which some medical researchers from the University of Exeter in England claimed that smelling farts may prevent cancer. (http://time.com/2976464/rotten-eggs-hydrogen-sulfide-mitochondria/?iid=ent-article-recirc)
That’s right, smelling farts may prevent cancer.
According to the article, hydrogen sulfide gas (a.k.a. Air Bagels) in small doses may prevent damage to cells’ mitochondria. If I remember correctly from a dozen flash card studying episodes during the Daughters’ biology classes, mitochondria:
- Look like small blobs inside a bigger blob, and
- Control cell growth and death.
So let’s get this straight–mitochondria control when cells grow and die, two things that feature heavily in the aging process and cancer. Then, what I’m hearing these people say is that smelling a Ghost Turd will make me younger and prevent cancer.
Huh. The fountain of youth and a miracle drug all in one! And even better, we can make it ourselves, without destroying the environment. Who would’ve predicted the world could be so cool?
So how can we harness this incredibly funny gift from nature? The movie Water World, comes to mind–they had a ship full of pigs making methane gas to use as a power source. Couldn’t we do that with hydrogen sulfide? I can see it now—a whole new dystopian world where the class system revolves around those who make a good Bean Burp and those who don’t.
Flatulence would become a commodity to be traded or exploited—much like our athletes are now. Let’s call those excessively gaseous folks “Bombers.” As long as a Bomber is a good producer, he is treated like a hero, nourished and cared for while the “product” is extracted and used for the betterment of humanity. When a Bomber is no longer useful, he is retired.
In a world of kindness, Bombers would also receive the same benefits from the gas as those lucky enough to afford it–living longer and looking younger. However, since the world generally is not good and kind when it comes to producers and consumers, I suspect the very few (i.e. the rich) would benefit from the masses (the Bombers), who would most likely be herded into holding pens and left to their own smelly devices. Beans, broccoli and other fibrous vegetables would become high commodities, leaving the meat industry to fall off….hmmm…would this also help with Global Warming?
So, as with all of our recent scientific breakthroughs, we are once again faced with the dilemma—is it morally right to go down this road? Do we dare start exploring the true benefits of the Backdoor Breeze? Are we ethically developed enough to handle this technology?
And more importantly, what would happen to the annoying yet fun art of “crop dusting?”
(Urban Dictionary Definition for Crop Dusting: “Surreptitiously farting while passing through a cube farm, then enjoying the sounds of dismay and disgust.”)
Filed under: Middle Age, Parenting, Posts, Travel | Tags: adulthood, cars, driving, family, humor, kids, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, parents, road rage, rules of the road, subourbonmom, teenagers, teens, traffic, travel, turn signals
Driving around with brand new teenage drivers, or soon-to-be-drivers can be like hanging out with an alcoholic at a party who’s just gotten back on the wagon. There is an enormous amount of self-righteousness packed into one place.
“Mom, you’re going over the speed limit.”
“Mom, the light turned green. Put your phone down.”
“Mom, I think that policeman is trying to wave you over….mom? Mom? Why have your eyes gone black??”
One of my biggest driving pet peeves is people who don’t use turn signals, especially at stoplights. FYI People—they are not optional or just a courtesy! They are required by law!
I can’t tell you how many drivers have seen me yelling and gesturing (with my windows safely up) as they paused in the middle of the intersection, looking bewildered as everyone waits for them to go straight because they forgot to put their turn signal on.
Daughter #1, our newest licensed driver, is now beginning to understand my frustration, and has come up with some of her own creative descriptions of these drivers, none of which can be printed here.
Daughter #2 however, has more fun pointing out the times when I myself forget to use my signal (as if!), or when, according to her, I wait to long to use it. The other day, we were getting ready to turn onto our street when apparently I didn’t use my signal until too late.
Daughter #1: “You didn’t use your signal, Mom.”
Me: “Yes, I did.”
Daughter #2: “Well, you waited long enough.”
Me: “Don’t mess with me today. It’s too hot.”
Daughter #2: “Why? What are you gonna do?”
Me: “Just–don’t. It’s not worth it.”
Long pause…
Daughter #2: “It’s worth it a little bit.”
Sigh……so please, in the interests of keeping people safe, and because playing chicken in the middle of an intersection isn’t cool, use your turn signals. IN the words of one of my youth group leaders back in the day, WWJD?
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Posts | Tags: adulthood, ATMs, breasts, business, entrepreneurs, health, humor, libraries, mammograms, menopause, Middle-Age, mom, south, southern, subourbonmom, women, women's health
I was reminded the other day that I am way late on getting my mammogram done—y’all, getting older sucks. Seriously, there’s got to be a more comfortable way to look at our mammory masterpieces. Thanks to Obamacare (which I think has done great things for people with pre-existing illness, by the way), I’ve been counting my pennies and choosing carefully which medical events are most important. In my field research, I’ve found more inexpensive ways to get a mammogram done.
The best way is to drive to your local library and use the mechanized drop box that looks like an ATM. Our county’s libraries recently got new ones—here’s how they work. When you drive up, the shelf is exactly at the wrong height, no matter what kind of car you’re in.
If you’re in an SUV, you have to hang your body half way out the window because you have to be so far away to accommodate the return book conveyor belt. Then you smush your chest on your window as you reach for the buttons to operate the damned thing. If you’re in a sedan or God forbid, a hybrid, you have to climb like a monkey up to the right height, squishing your chest on the drop box ledge to get your books up there.
Side note: Someone please tell me—why is it an option to get a receipt at the library? Are there people who don’t want a receipt in case there is secret information that someone might use against them to rack up a bunch of late charges? Just print the thing off without making me hang my torso out of the car like a crash-test dummy to press another button.
Another good place to do this is at your local ATM. Same principal applies, but the reverse is true for cars—ATMs seem to be made for SUVs. I was driving Hubby’s sedan (excuse me, he would emphasize it’s a SPORT sedan, even though it has 4 doors), and realized the car mirrors are at exactly the wrong height–they would smack into the front edge of the ATM if I got any closer. I had to back up and pull in again (much to my mortification) so I wouldn’t hit the machine. Then, I had to stretch up to reach the buttons and grab my stuff, once again smushing my chest exactly like they do in a mammogram.
If mammogram folks were smart, they would partner with library drop offs and ATMs to do a combo-service, taking a picture as you went about your business. A week after you visited the ATM or library drop-off, you would get a notice in the mail informing you if your mammogram was normal or not–receipt optional.
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Travel | Tags: adulthood, Birds, budget, construction, family, humor, kharma, lake, porches, south, southern, subourbonmom, travel, Virginia
Every now and then Hubby and I have a Come-To-Jesus meeting about our budget, where we both agree we eat meals out too often, among the other things we spend too much money on. That’s an easy way to cut back. Then we promptly go out with friends to a Mexican place and have beer and margaritas. I’m always lecturing the girls on not spending their money at restaurants, and to save it for something they really want—and they promptly go to a local dive called Satterwites and order breakfast. Shocker…
Come to find out, the Animal Kingdom isn’t much different than the People Kingdom in that regard. Nobody likes to eat what’s in their own house.
We (okay, really it was Hubby and friends) recently finished the back porch. I was the SOA (Sr. Outside Assistant, handling things like running to the kitchen for rum and cokes and beer). The porch is another dream come true (seriously, I’ve been thinking about it for years—BIG points for Hubby)—and then came the opportunity to get some good karma from the Animal Kingdom, to balance out the massive amounts of fish we’d been catching and eating. (I’m sure that someday I will come back as a catfish—that will be my punishment—in fact, I’ve already got these suspiciously long hairs around my mouth that I now have to get waxed off…seriously, getting old is so gross.)
Unfortunately, a family of wrens built their nest (complete with 3 eggs) in the stack of cushions we were storing on the porch. By the time we got the screen done and were ready to move the whole stack outside, nest included, there were three baby wrens in the nest instead of just eggs. What a dilemma—make birds happy, or push on with my dream of sitting bug-free on the porch.
Newsflash: I’m not a bird fan, Baltimore Orioles excepted. They creep me out—all twitchy and beady-eyed.
I spent some time trying to determine how to move the nest without dropping the babies, but finally, better people (Mom and Daughters and Niece) decided the right thing to do was to leave the nest where it was and leave the porch doors open so Mama and Daddy Bird could feed the babies and teach them how to fly. According to the internet, this takes about 2 weeks.
I was not happy to have to share my porch with my feathered friends.
So we spent the rest of the time with the doors open and citronella candles burning, watching wasps, ants, mosquitos and other creepy crawlies enjoy their new home. It was also entertaining to watch the bugs have to re-route their flight paths once the porch was enclosed in a no-fly zone–lots of smacks against the screens. Those smacking sounds were almost as satisfying as hearing a bug zapper, or hitting them with the electric for swatter.
Finally, after dodging yet another angry, Kamikaze wasp, Big Brother said, “If those birds are going to live in here with us, the least they can do is stop going out for dinner. They should eat what’s here.”
I guess even the birds need to have a Come-to-Jesus budget meeting, too.
Last summer I wrote a blog about fishing with my family, and my regrets over my sore-loser attitude. (see https://subourbonmom.wordpress.com/2013/08/19/fishing-frenzy/) This year, we once again had our Annual Lake Trip Family Fishing Tournament. I was determined to have fun, and maybe convince one of our daughters to join us at 6:00am for the camaraderie and smack talking that is our fishing style–“that’s how we troll.” (It should be noted that this year, for the first time ever, my sister-in-law also went—and she is NOT a morning person—she didn’t catch anything, but she was a trooper. Thanks for the effort, SA!)
After two days of Hubby, Big Brother and myself coming back to the dock with buckets of fish, Daughter #1 agreed to go. The first day, she got up at 6:00 and came down to the boat, phone in hand, and promptly began taking sleepy selfies. We didn’t catch much that day, just a catfish and a little white bass, but she said she might do it again because she just had fun hanging out (how about that for fun family time, and only a little bit of phone use?).
The next time, she got up again at 6:00 and shuffled down to the dock, coffee that Hubby made her in one hand, cell phone welded to her other.
Take note:
- Hubby makes coffee for her, and he is the only person who can make it the right way, since they use very little coffee, with lots of creamer and sugar—it’s too sickening for me to even taste to get it right; and
2. Daughter #1 is clearly able to get up that early and be ready for action, just not on school days.
(Hmmmmm….)
As we trolled along the points, the early sun shining above us, Big Brother made note of what he considered a slight personality change that occurs when I fish. Apparently, when I’m not catching anything, I’m somewhat unpleasant to be around, but when I do catch something, all is right with the world.
“The Gray Wiggle” (according to Daughter #2) catches another catfish…
When I argued the point, Daughter #1 said, “Mom, you think you’re not competitive, but you are. You even tell everybody how competitive me and dad are, and that you and Daughter #1 skipped that gene. But you’re just as bad.”
Big Brother laughed and said, “You’re right. She’s even competitive about being competitive.”
Okay, okay, you might be right.
But while you’re busy talking about how competitive I am, I’m going fishing. Nobody catches anything without throwing a line in.
Subourbon Mom 
