My mother had three habits I swore I was never going to do when I got older:
1) She left the vacuum in the middle of the hallway. All the time. Vacuum day, or not.
2) Whenever she bent down to pick something off the floor, or got up from a chair, she grunted.
3) Whenever she went to the restroom, she farted, and it sounded like an oboe. As a child, I remember thinking I don’t even know how she made that noise. She must have the instrument hidden in her purse and was blowing on it in the public restrooms simply to humiliate me.
As of today, I am only managing to not do #1. I’m not sure what that says about me, or my genetic predisposition for bodily noises. I sound just like my mother used to, and I think of her a lot when I’m off gassing.
Bakingnotwriting came down the peninsula to see me today. She brought her dog (you can never get enough dog pictures or dogs) and a dog she was babysitting for a friend. At some point during her visit I went to the restroom for an oboe break. When I returned Bakingnotwriting acted like she didn’t hear the concerto. I live in a small house. It was impossible that she was that deaf.
Me: Did you hear that?
Me: I farted in the bathroom. It sounded like an oboe.
Bakingnotwriting: I heard it. I didn’t want to say anything.
Me: I’m becoming my mother.
Bakingnotwriting: Your neighbors across the street probably heard it.
Me: Like a foghorn. I could warn ships at sea of approaching inclement weather.