“People get older with age; like a fine wine that rots or... does it get better with age?”

“I eat bread every morning with my coffee.” A common statement which is scientifically proven: If you eat bread and more bread, it will cause natural gases [in plain English “Farts”]. Yeast and fibers are a consistent fuel that will blast furnace your butt. So, don’t ever announce publicly: “You eat bread every morning!”

Flash back to the days when I would meet up with John, for our 6:30 to 9:00 p.m. dating schedule. My mom would never allow me to stay out late at night. She would always say: “Only when you are 18 years old, will I even give this thought!” Our dates consisted of studying at his house, where we would sneak into his backyard to kiss and hold for 30 seconds. Or go to the movies if we got bored. It had to be short flicks, because Mom would start yelling for the sixtieth time! We sat quietly in the dark cineplex, neither of us would talk, giggle, whisper or make awkward noises - until - the lights faded back in. Aren’t we all so embarrassed as teenagers?

At 22, I was dating a super cool guy, better than John, because he had a red Corvette Coupe (with LS-1 V8/345 Horsepower, Automatic 4-Speed, Glass Targa Top, Dual Zone Air Conditioning, Heads-Up Display, and an In-Dash CD Player), he kept telling me. He wore classical Adidas tennis running shoes, a white, red and blue Lacoste sweater, and before I forget, he was one of the most popular students in our high school.

10:00 p.m. sharp on Thursdays and Saturdays, I would hear his car park near the curb. He promptly rang the door bell, and we were off to a pleasant dinner at “Le Goût du Cuisine.” A fancy French restaurant with “La carte,” a menu list that wasn’t affordable to most University students. Unless, their Father was the founding president of the Town and Country Tennis Club, among other aristocratic establishments his father owned. His name was William Bradford III (my boyfriend that is). A true gentleman, who opened the car door, opened the restaurant door, pulls a chair and waits, yes waits for me to be seated at the restaurant. To be honest, the dinners were very quiet - table manners were a priority. I tried my best to get my elbows off the table, and, I still recall the amount of forks, knifes, plates, and glass cups that were displayed. Too many to count, or to figure out within a reasonable order.

Everything seemed “perfect,” until I married him 3 years later. How could I have known, marriage, actually meant having a fart-maniac husband who mentally concentrated on burping the whole alphabet, letter by letter, after drinking a full bottle of red wine. For God’s sake, who is this person? OK, I will admit to having farted ONCE in bed (by mistake!), however, William keeps reminding me how disgraceful I am. “A civilized woman should not fart her fucking ass off, as if it were a steam boat,” as he frenetically yells. If he just took a few minutes to look in the mirror, he would be surprised by his reflection: a man who is becoming a full time slob. I swear, give him 10 years, and he will be a fat-belly-pig that thinks entertainment is watching sports on weekends, while burping with his macho buddies the result of the game. Plus other things I have noticed lately, which I don’t intend to publicize on the world wide web. Yes, you the reader are trying to pry! I do pray at night wishing he would change. William was my all-American boy, a prince, a knight on a white horse, who never had natural gases. As for eating bread, we don’t eat it, we avoid it, but that hasn’t changed anything. Damn!