It’s Friday and that’s always a day for risky behavior. I will seriously regret posting this but I’m gonna hit publish anyhow.
We needed some ink cartridges for our computer and so the boy-child and I went to Target. He was walking ahead of me and as I rounded the corner into the aisle, I farted. Let me emphasize that with italics because I like using them. I farted in Tarjay. The Neiman Marcus for those of us born without a trust fund. No. Warning. Whatsoever. Say all you want about the 50s being the new 40s, but back then I knew when a fart was coming and could do something about it.
I said, “Excuse me,” because with the exception of a rogue fart, I have impeccable manners. The boy-child turned around and said, “Did you just fart?” That’s when we both lost it. Like on the floor lost it. Crying, shaking, can’t talk lost it. Almost peed in my pants lost it. When he could talk he said, “I can’t believe you just farted in Target.”
Neither could I and maybe it’s our DNA that gives us the mental maturity of an eight year old boy who loves a good fart. I would have loved it more if it was him instead of me but bonding has a way of sneaking up on you.
Whenever the two of us are out and about he never fails to say, “Hey, Mom, remember that time you farted in Target” (like I could forget that)? Then we laugh like the immature, little dorks that we are.