Everyone has a Fart story

Everyone has at least one fart story. Some of you may know that I have a tendency to name things. The following incident is known in our family as The Mother’s Day Fart. (update: aka The Wal-Mart Fart -- ***Amanda)

I was my eldest daughter’s guest of honor at Washington State University (Wazzu) on a mother’s day weekend some years back. Her roommate’s mother enjoyed the same privilege.

Most of the weekend is a faint memory with the exception of two things. The first was a late evening rainstorm that lured thousands of earthworms to the surface. They were anterior to posterior (I'd say end to end, but don't they have heads?) on the sidewalk when we were returning from a special musical affair. By the time we arrived at the dormitory I swear I was two inches taller from all the goo stuck on my shoes.

Then, of course, there was the fart.

We woke up late Sunday, which made our plans for a nice brunch morph into a lunch across the border in Moscow, Idaho. The Chinese restaurant we chose served a lovely meal, which we followed up with a trip to Wal-Mart. Neither mother had shopped in a Wal-Mart store so we looked upon it as an adventure.

As we drove into the parking lot, I felt lunch gurgling in my belly. I knew that could cause some grimacing in the near future. Being an honest person, I warned the other three that I was feeling some discomfort. Once I broached the subject, a few stories followed. I, of course, disclosed that I had been the unfortunate target of several indiscreet “fluffers” over the previous week. Two elderly women had been standing close to me at the theater when one of them tooted. Adding insult, they looked at each other, than at me, as though I was the perpetrator. At the supermarket there was a male senior citizen sharing the aisle who popped when he put his left foot in, then again when he put his left foot out. Either he was doing the hokey pokey or he was deaf.

The girls “giggled” while we exited the car. We then entered the store, passed the greeter (hmm fancy!), and found ourselves at the shoe department. The first encounter was a Kiosk of sandals in all colors and sizes that we circled like a wagon train. The inspection of the treasure had just begun when an obese woman in polyester pants waddled in between the daughters. That is when it happened. She lost control. The ensuing escape of methane discharged --- and applauded itself, ta-boot.

The eyes of two mothers and two daughters met in a silent stare across the faux leather. There were no expressions. There were no movements. We were four statues held in some sort of a now what? trance.

The suspended animation might have held had it not been for the woman’s husband. He turned his head away, covered his mouth, and with a feigned and exaggerated coughing fit made a feeble and inane attempt to mimic his wife’s blast.

The tension was broken. In what could best be described as a synchronized escape, each of us executed a perfect pirouette and streaked in opposite directions. In some “unsolved mystery”, we managed to assemble in an aisle in the back of the huge super store and scurry out the nearest exit.

We laughed all the way back to Wazzu.