Miss Creant and the case of the Arm Fart

As some of you may already know, Miss Creant spent yesterday morning in the hospital undergoing surgery. Long story short, she’s all better now, and is recovering from the pain involved.

This isn’t the story of the surgery. This is the story of recovery.

One of the things they do during a laparoscopic procedure is, apparently, to inflate your abdomen to 35psi to make room to look around. This makes sense to me, or else guts and stuff would be in the way of the li’l camera.

While I was talking with the surgeon after the operation, he was telling me about how Miss C might have pain in her shoulder area after the procedure due in part to the air pumped into her. I had to come up with a way to explain this to her later.

Me, being 100% boy and 100% base to the core, deemed the resulting pain “The Arm Fart.” It worked. She got the idea.

First thing this morning, we wake up. Before we have a chance to get out of bed to start the day, I immediately inquire as to how she feels. She tells me, “I’m doing okay, even The Arm Fart is going away.”

My response? “Yeah, it seems to have migrated out of your mouth.”

For your future reference, never say such a thing.

That is all.
:smiley:

It’s a good thing you know how to fix stuff or she could do better with the washing machine and a stack of quarters.

:smiley:
[sub]Who wants odds she wises up before the wedding? I got a fin that says she takes the dog and runs.[/sub]

You’re on. He’s snookered somethin’ fierce. I think she’s got blackmail material on him.

Or maybe you want to make a REAL bet…

I’ve seen your bets, buddy. If I lose, I’ll either end up getting poked in the arse by Brett Farve or puking up my guts while dozens of people chant my name.

Both of which I could do anytime. :smiley:

I think it’s only fair that I get to run the pool on this one…

I’m so glad she is well, and I do hope she utilizes some hospital-type thingie to wreak vengance upon you for your Arm-Fart comment . . . Maybe something to do with a bedpan, or a catheter . . .

For some reason, my addled brain had interpreted that into “stuffing him into a washing machine” the first time I read that.
Still, that would have been a good idea, too.

I echo the lovely Eve in my relief all is well in Miss Creant’s abdominal cavity. But Mr. C, dude, never pop a crack like that first thing in the morning. The sense of humor is one of the last things to wake up in some folks. Witty as it may be, you have seen the result, and it may take a week of “HAT DAG!” to fully get back into her goodest graces. I suggest you begin immediately.

I must have read and re-read the title to this thing a half dozen times and every time it came across as Miss Creant and the case of the Ant Farm, which really had me scratching my head when you were describing it in the little story up there.

Makes much more sense your way.

I think Bill likes to follow your adventures. Of course, that’s so he can add to his list of “Things not to say to your fiancee.”

What can I say?

I felt safe, in my comparably superhero-like mobility, that I could at least deflect if not completely evade any strike from her.

My eyebrows fell off, but there wasn’t anything to be done about that.

The best thing about this? I don’t have to say them to MY fiancee, and thereby suffer her wrath, which I suspect she may have.

I do have wrath, though I hope not to have to use it very often.

I now carry **Mr. C **'s head around in a red towel

Glad you’re doing better. Remember, if you want me to come over and kick him or anything, I’m only a few minutes away.

I saw Ant Farm too.