OK, OK. I’ve spent most of this week plugging away at the inspirational posts about authenticity and embracing YES and making yourself into the positive person you desire to become. Enough! Let’s get back to the REAL reason for this blog–fart jokes.
I’ve mentioned Fartbuster before (aka my first husband, starter husband, ex-husband, waste of my 20’s, etc). He wasn’t known for his farting or anything; my dad dubbed him Fartbuster after the divorce to sum up his utter uselessness in regards to what he had contributed to my life–a lot of hot air and a generalized unpleasant stink that dissipated pretty quickly. Ten years of my life–broken like the wind. Pffffft.
We had been together for about four years when we decided to marry. There was no official proposal. Our decision to get married was made over chicken quesadillas on a Tuesday night. It was more of a, “We could get married. I guess? Pass the salsa. Yeah, OK” kind of magic moment. Bwahahaha….my spellchecker just suggested “peccadilloes” instead of “quesadillas.” If only, word processing gods, if only.
I was tasked with picking out my own ring, because, y’know…it was so much trouble. Meh. I found one I loved and we ordered it from a guy I knew. I didn’t know how long it would take to make, so I wasn’t really looking for it anytime specific. Romance just oooooozes from this story, right??? Ours was a passion built on discounted Mexican food.
A few weeks later, we went away for a quick weekend trip to Chattanooga. Fartbuster was acting stranger than usual. Shady. We got to town late in the afternoon and still hadn’t had lunch, so I was antsy as hell to go find food but he kept making dumb reasons to go back to the hotel room. He told me to go to the car to look for a book. I told him it could wait. He suggested I go fill up the ice bucket. I pointed out that it would be melted by the time we got back to the room. The problem was that he had the ring hidden in his suitcase and was trying to get it in his pocket so he could surprise me. I was the monkey wench in that plan. We went to the aquarium and didn’t get engaged. We went to Rock City and didn’t get engaged at Lover’s Leap. We went to dinner and didn’t get engaged.
When we got back to the hotel, Fartbuster turned on the TV to veg out. I took a shower. While I was brushing my teeth, I could feel him acting weird again. He was lying on the bed just looking at me. “Waaaaht?” I asked, through a mouthful of foam. He didn’t say anything. I wore glasses back then and didn’t have them on, so this was all a blur. I shrugged and turned back to the sink. I spat, put my glasses on, and came to bed.
There on my pillow sat a gray velvet box. That’s what he had been acting all goofy about. I squealed and took out the ring. It was perfect–heavy gold band with an emerald center stone and diamonds all around. I loved it and I loved him and all was right with the world. Of course, I did say, “Wait!!!! We can’t do this!! People are going to ask where you proposed and I have to say, ‘in bed!’ That is so trashy!”
We laughed together and enjoyed our sweet moment, but it had been a long day. He went back to watching TV and I rolled over to admire the ring twinkling in the lamplight. After a while, I fell asleep.
And then. Well.
Have you ever farted so loud that you WOKE YOURSELF UP? I have. I did. Right then. Blame it on excitement, travel, fried chicken, nerves…what have you. But seriously, the first thing I knew, I was jarred awake by a megaton explosion of fart. KAPOW. Then I realized it was ME. Like any proper Southern lady, I played possum. I lay perfectly still, hoping that he was asleep and hadn’t heard a thing. For a good five seconds, I thought I had gotten away with it.
Then he shouted, “Good GOD, woman! Give me back that ring!”
Old Fartbuster had his moments.