Monthly Archives: March 2011

I farted in the car at prom.

This isn't the exact dress, but pretty damn close.

If you know me, you know I don’t fart. People who don’t know me, may think my outgoing personality and say-it-like-it-is attitude is open to such things as flatulence or belching. That is far from the truth. I don’t even allow my children to say the word fart. It’s honestly disgusting. That said, sometimes you have no control over your moral wishes. Your body says otherwise.

Its prom season around these parts. For high school girls, March is for finding a date, saving money, and dress shopping. I recently went shopping for a dress with my daughter who was really set on getting the $400 dress I let her try on. And no matter how much I tell her that she has no idea how good she has it, she really is clueless and spoiled.

This got me thinking back to my prom. I didn’t actually go to my senior prom. I went in a pair of jeans and took photos of my friends in their beautiful gowns while my husband stayed at home with the baby.  But I did go to A prom. It was my Freshman year, he was a Junior. We had dated most of that year, so prom was inevitable. My mom took me dress shopping, let me look at all the beautiful gowns and even let me try on a bunch of them. I think she was just being nice and let me feel like pretty woman, but in the end, she told me there was no way I was getting any type of dress and she assured me the bridesmaid dress that I wore for my brothers wedding would do just fine.

I’d post a picture from prom, but I can’t find them. My date’s mom bought the photos, she paid for everything because she loved me. Him, I don’t think so, but mom sure did! Anyway, if I wanted to go, I had to wear the dress. I didn’t know anyone to borrow from (I’d only lived in Craptown USA for a year).

The dress was royal blue. Home made from a pattern. Blue lace bodice over the blue satin. Long to the ground, (that year short was in style), blue sequined belt that hit just below my boobs, gigantic blue puffy sleeves. I hated it, but if I were going to prom that’s what I was wearing. So off we go.

We double dated. It was my first fancy date. He was in a tux jacket and shirt and wore a cowboy hat, fancy new black wranglers and of course boots. This was pretty much the uniform for the town prom-goers.  His friend was a Senior that year dating some girl who eventually egged his house and made him miserable. His bud’s mom rented a Cadillac, we sat in the back. It was probably the nicest car I’d ever been in at that point. It had a gigantic back seat with leather interior. Damn that leather.

We ate at the local country club (which wasn’t local and was about 20 miles away). I think this must have been one of the parents ideas because we were the ONLY people in the entire restaurant. I was nervous and felt weird. I felt like we were all playing dress up and we looked stupid. I honestly don’t remember what we talked about or what I ate. Probably because it sucked. This wasn’t what the movie proms were like.

After dinner we slid back into the car and we set off to the long drive to the high school. On those damn leather seats, in that stupid car.

As the radio got louder and we set out on our 30 min drive back though town, I decided to be sweet and tell my date I loved him. This was the first person I had ever said this to. I think we were just trying it out, didn’t really mean it… but it felt cool to say it.

I slid next to him, me now sitting in the middle of the backseat in this gigantic Cadillac, I put my am through his squeeze tight, look him in the eye, tell him, “I love you.” I smile sweetly, and then fart.

His head quickly turned toward the window. I began to sweat. There was no mistake at what had just happened. Those freaking stupid leather seats and my ugly satin dress provided the perfect acoustics for such horror. My arm was still interlocked in his, and I can feel him shaking. He’s laughing. I’m horrified. If I was an open farter, I might help him laugh it off and tell everyone, “roll down all the windows! Man, my stomach hurts!”

But no. I just can’t do it. I’m horrified, embarrassed and I want to go home. Then, the idiot rolls down his window and says he’s hot. The stupid soon-to-be ex girlfriend stick-girl in the front begs him to roll it back up because she’s freezing and now they’re fighting it out, and I want to die.

Complete silence in the car for the rest of the ride.

When we got to the high school, girls went to the girls room, boys waited for us. This provided those jerks the perfect opportunity to talk about my fart. To talk about how disgusting I was and how my fart stinks (and it did).

I can remember every second of that part of prom, but I don’t remember ever dancing with him. I don’t remember even taking our photos. I don’t remember the ride home. All I can remember is the stupid ugly ass blue dress and those stupid leather seats.

And if you’re wondering my daughter DID get that $400 dress. And she’s going stag. And she loves to fart.

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