Public versus Private

I’m rather convinced that some folks just don’t understand that there’s a difference between “public” and “private.” Well, either that, or they don’t care. I (like many of you) have been an unwilling witness to things that I really wish people would keep to themselves. Some bother me more than others. We’ve all seen them – the people who believe that their car is the equivalent of the “cone of silence” (I was a big “Get Smart” fan back in the day). They seem to think that no one can see or hear them once they close that car door and enter the inner sanctum. Well, guess what?! I don’t particularly enjoy watching you gentlemen pick your nose, clean your ears with whatever’s handy or, even worse, stop on the side of the highway to take a leak. Didn’t Mommy teach you to do those things before you leave the house? Oh and, in case you’re that much of a dim bulb, standing behind your car door doesn’t mean people can’t see you. Try to curb the urge to write your name in the snow. It makes you a tad more obvious. Ladies, you aren’t off the hook either. Travel time is not appropriate for a makeover. How a chick can apply mascara in the rearview mirror or paint her nails and NOT have an accident is beyond me. Sometimes, couples can collectively register on the “grossing me out” scale. I have yet to recover from the morning I was stuck in bumper to bumper traffic. The young couple ahead of me seemed to be pretty cozy but, hey, whatever passes your time, I figured. UNTIL the driver rolled down his window and launched a tissue that landed on my windshield… and stayed. I swear I must have used a whole GALLON of windshield washer fluid. Makes me want to grab my shoe phone and give these people whatever piece of my mind I have to spare. Anyway, yesterday I was standing in the greeting card aisle of the local Wal-Mart, minding my own business, when I was almost knocked unconscious by noxious fumes. No, there was no gas leak in the store… unless you count the old lady who was standing back to back with me, launching silent but deadly stink bombs. When did farting in public become acceptable? In my mind, it never did – and it never will. People give this particular bodily function cute little names to try to make it more “P.C.”: passing wind (I’ve yet to be gagged by “wind” unless I was passing through a town with a sulphur mine), cutting the cheese (well ok, there’s some pretty ripe cheese out there so I can see the analogy) or, growing up with my polite and proper mother, “fluffering.” Yes, fluffering. How harmless does that sound? There were no “farts” in our house until we were old enough to grasp that, when Dad said “pull my finger,” you DIDN’T - under ANY circumstance. From here on out, we’ll refer to my Dad as the “Fluffer King.” He loved fart humor. I remember being mortified when I’d have a friend stay for dinner and he’d tell this joke: Fluffer King: Hey did you know I got a new job? My Friend: Oh yeah? Where? Fluffer King: At the dry cleaner. My Friend: The dry cleaner??? Fluffer King: Yeah… I got a job picking farts out of blankets At this point, he’d erupt into laughter and I’d want to curl up into a fetal position under the kitchen table. Shopping with the Fluffer King was sort of like shopping with a ticking time bomb. He was set to go off at any minute. He found a way to amuse himself while waiting for my mother. He’d wander around looking for an empty aisle in a store and then he and his “walking farts” would saunter down there. Then he’d quickly leave the aisle and stand within viewing distance, watching his poor, unsuspecting victims come barrelling out, gagging and flailing their arms to ward off the caustic cloud. If no one happened to walk down that aisle, he’d send one of us to “check the price” on something – guess he couldn’t stand to waste good gas. Now, I live with “Fluffer King Lite” (the hubby). I think he and the original Fluffer King would have gotten along famously, if the reigning king hadn’t already passed on. Although I firmly believe he willed along his Golden Sphinc… oops… Scepter. Fluffer King Lite loves fart humor too – much to my dismay. If the kids don’t wake up fast enough on a school day? Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrpppppppppppppp! That has ‘em hitting the floor in record time. But I digress; there I was, trapped right behind Gassy Granny in Greeting Cards. What does one do in this situation? Hold your breath and hope she’s done? Give her a nasty look and spritz a little body spray into the air? Ask her how that All Bran’s workin’ out for her? Nope. If you’re me, you drop whatever you were looking at and high tail it outta the aisle, hoping against hope that no one thinks something crawled up YOUR ass and died. Some things really need to be done in private.