A stripper farted in my face on Friday.

God, I love that title.  The fact that it’s true makes it that much sweeter.  I can’t wait to say to someone, “Remember the time that stripper farted in my face?” But since I’m still trying to process the hilarity and craziness of last Friday it will have to wait for now.

I’m in Atlanta the first half of this week and San Francisco the second half for work, and being away from my new home is proving difficult, especially since my support system for quitting smoking is back in New Orleans.  At least I have a good excuse for being irritable with my mom.  My mom.  Who insisted I look at my cousin’s naked, pregnant belly yesterday.

Mom: Did you see the baby’s room? Isn’t cute?

Me: Uh-huh.  I can barely contain myself.

Mom: And did you see how they put his name in block letters on the wall?

Me: Yup.  O-S-W-A-L-D-O.  Yet another kid who’ll never be able to find his name personalized on a keychain or magnet.

Mom: And did your cousin show you her belly? (Yells at my cousin to come in the room and lift the bottom half of her shirt.)

Me: Oh, no.  Really it’s fine.  I can picture it pretty clearly in my mind.  Seriously. No,  You really don’t-need-to-do-that.

The horror.

When we have finally managed to get the hell out of there and are back in the car:

Me: Please don’t ever do that to me again.

Mom: Do what?

Me: Make me look at someone’s naked pregnant belly.

Mom: Why?  It’s beautiful.  I’m going to take pictures of it and send it to you. What is wrong with you?

Me: I don’t know.  Ask the woman who named me.

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