A strong stomach is to be valued

As we gathered at the front door before embarking on our long trip to Mobile, AL, for Thanksgiving, I suddenly was gripped with a bad case of gas, and as we all know it's not at all healthy to hold it in. So I didn't. Moments later Esther began to shout, and then cry. At first I didn't know what she was doing, until she began screaming, "I don't wanna smell rotten eggs!", over and over again. Her mother looked at me accusingly, as Esther began to hiss loudly, mouth open, trying to get rid of the taste. At first Monica glared at me accusingly, and then could barely contain her mirth.

I'm not joking.

On the way down south we stopped at a gas station in the middle of nowhere. Monica asked Esther if she needed to go, who has a fear of vile, smelly public restrooms. Esther leaned forward to get a good look (it was one of those outdoor deals), noticed that it looked suspiciously nasty, and exclaimed, "No! I don't haffa go to da bafroom!" Monica took her anyway, and it turned out to be worse than expected. I won't go into detail, but someone apparently didn't know how to properly clean themselves after using the facilities, and the place was a mess, rendering it unusable (unless you were the woman who drove up after we left, who didn't seem to mind).

After several bad experiences Esther has developed a phobia about public restrooms. Monica says that when she visits a clean one, her face lights up as she announces, "Hey! It doesn't gink!"

I'm afraid she got her weak stomach from me. I can't stand public restrooms either. Bleaghh.

A strong stomach is to be valued.