“What does SHART even mean?!” my dad exclaimed with a puzzled yet amused look on his face. I took a big dramatic breath to calm myself, preparing to share the horrific event once more. It was the winter of 2012, and my best friend Brian and I had decided to take a day trip to the Mall of America to do some shopping for New Year’s Eve outfits. One day at work we were discussing our plans, and our new coworker, Macy, interrupted into the conversation in an overly sarcastic manner. “Wait…are you guys going to the Mall of America? And you didn’t even think to invite me?! How rude.” We laughed, but with one look at Brian’s eyes, I knew it was acceptable to extend an invite. Macy played coy, “Well, I was just kidding, but I mean, if ya really want me to come…then, I will!”
I knew Macy had a boisterous way about her, always dancing and singing funny songs she came up with at work about mundane things like marking down clearance prices or checking back on fitting rooms. She was witty and sassy, which is why we almost instantly connected. But, I hadn’t realized the extent to which her energy levels could reach until our car ride to the Mall of America. Three hours in a car, and not a moment of silence. There were stories about her mom who is in denial of her age, still believing that she is young and hip, tales of many crazy drunken nights, and more singing voices and volumes than I knew possible. At one point during our drive I glanced at the passengers seat to Brian and knew he was thinking the same thing…”How close are we to the mall??”.
When we finally arrived and parked in the Hawaii parking lot, I practically ran inside. We spent several hours shopping, trying on various items, as Macy’s energy seemed to go down a level or two. The day turned into the evening, making it time to head back to La Crosse. “Can we stop at the bathroom though really quick, I am not feeling so hot!” Macy exclaimed. “You puked?!” Brian exclaimed when we got into the car. “Yeah, but I mean, I feel alright I think. Sometimes I just have a little indigestion after eating fast food.” Brian shot my worried look. I offered her some Tums, and we were on our way home.
About an hour later, after an oddly quiet ride thus far, Macy asked for me to stop at the next gas station. I looked at my GPS, found the nearest Kwik Trip, about 3 miles ahead. One minute later, Macy spoke up again, “Uhh, could you possibly just pull over whenever possible? I think I might need to puke again.” Brian stared at me. Little did we know that this would the first pit stops of many more to come.
The last time I pulled over is when it happened. We were nearing the exit to La Crescent, the city in which we would be dropping Macy off at her car where we had picked her up earlier that day, and she suddenly shouted, “PULL OVER, PULL OVER!”. At this point I was on the actual exit, and didn’t feel as though it was a safe move for me to pull over right then and there. I looked up into the rear view mirror and saw her put her hand on her mouth and her cheeks inflate. I whipped my head at Brian, who was already turned towards me, staring at me with wide eyes.
I pulled over as soon as I could after we had gotten past the La Cresent exit, but before Macy had flung open the door, I heard the vile sound of puke exiting her mouth. I covered both my ears with my hands and looking in Brian’s direction shrieked, “AHHH, tell me when it’s done!” He looked towards the back seat and his jaw dropped. For what seemed like an eternity I sat there, shaking in disgust with my ears still covered, repeating aloud, “No, no, no, no, no!”
When she finished her disgusting deed and closed the car door, I smelled something. It was a smell that was not familiar to my sensitive senses, and I immediately held my breath. “Are you okay?” I managed to stutter, trying my best to breath in as little air as humanly possible. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I don’t know what made me so sick. I didn’t think I was gonna make it out the car that time, but I did!” I looked in the rear view mirror again, and Macy was sweating and looking out the window nervously. I looked to my right and Brian was holding in his breath, a look of disgust plastered across his face. We both smelled it.
I was too polite to call her out right away, and was more concerned about getting her to her car, sending her off, and investigating what exactly happened in the backseat, so I sped to the La Crescent High School parking lot where we had picked her up. After an awkward goodbye, I drove away quick and rolled down all my windows immediately, despite the single-digit temperatures outside. Brian and I breathed in the fresh air at the same time. “OH…MY…GOD…” I screamed aloud. “What…the…fuck did she do?!” I drove across the highway and into a small parking lot, parked, and got out of the car, Brian following my lead. “I don’t think she made it out the door” Brian said, deeply breathing in the winter air. I headed straight towards the backseat door. I took a deep breath, and opened the door slowly, as though some sort of rabid animal would be there, waiting to pounce towards me.
To my surprise, there was no sight of vomit. I pinched my nose, trying to figure out where the atrocious stench was coming from. Brian gasped. I whipped around and saw him pointing towards the seat. I blinked slowly and dramatically before looking, knowing nothing good was to come. “It’s…WET!” Brian screamed.
“Dad, shart means…well…it’s where you fart, and then shit a little.” My father busted out in uncontrollable laughter for a good thirty seconds. I sat there, unamused, staring at him straight in the eyes. Macy had sharted in my car. That night when it had happened, I left my car windows cracked open. I didn’t care if it snowed, or if my car wouldn’t start the next day. I had tried to clean it with the random bottles of cleaning supplies I found in my parents house late that night, as they lay fast asleep. But the next morning when I went out to check on it, I knew I needed to ask for professional parent help. “How do you KNOW?!” my dad managed to get out between his laughter. I waited for him to settle before I looked at him as seriously as I could, and slowly stated, “Dad, believe me…I just know. It smells like DEATH in my backseat. AND, there are small brown streaks.” He began laughing again, and I stood up, annoyed. “Well, if you can’t help me, then I guess I’ll have to go to the car wash and get the ultimate cleaning package or whatever. I cannot drive around in that MORGUE!”
Although I did have a tendency to be somewhat highly dramatic, my dad had no idea what he was getting into when he agreed to try to clean out that back seat. Thankfully for my gag reflexes, he didn’t ask me for assistance. I had been through enough at this point. I looked out the window as my dad began to try to salvage my backseat of my Ford Taurus, but I had to look away as the smell was still all too familiar.
About a half an hour later, my dad came back inside the house, pale faced and wide-eyed. He sighed deeply and said, “You weren’t joking…she SHARTED in your car!” As he began to describe the “worst thing he’d ever smelled” to my mom, I quickly raised my hand in the air and closing my eyes, stopped him. “Can we not?” I said quietly, taking a big breath, trying to get the pungency out of my mind.
I thought back to the popular children’s book by Taro Gomi, titled “Everyone Poops”. The illustrated book explains to children why and how people and various animals poop. “Some stop to poop. Others do it on the move.” A line reads. “Some poop here and there. Others do it in a special place.” Unfortunately, Taro Gomi forgot to mention that sometimes that “special place” is the backseat of your car.
I knew Macy had a boisterous way about her, always dancing and singing funny songs she came up with at work about mundane things like marking down clearance prices or checking back on fitting rooms. She was witty and sassy, which is why we almost instantly connected. But, I hadn’t realized the extent to which her energy levels could reach until our car ride to the Mall of America. Three hours in a car, and not a moment of silence. There were stories about her mom who is in denial of her age, still believing that she is young and hip, tales of many crazy drunken nights, and more singing voices and volumes than I knew possible. At one point during our drive I glanced at the passengers seat to Brian and knew he was thinking the same thing…”How close are we to the mall??”.
When we finally arrived and parked in the Hawaii parking lot, I practically ran inside. We spent several hours shopping, trying on various items, as Macy’s energy seemed to go down a level or two. The day turned into the evening, making it time to head back to La Crosse. “Can we stop at the bathroom though really quick, I am not feeling so hot!” Macy exclaimed. “You puked?!” Brian exclaimed when we got into the car. “Yeah, but I mean, I feel alright I think. Sometimes I just have a little indigestion after eating fast food.” Brian shot my worried look. I offered her some Tums, and we were on our way home.
About an hour later, after an oddly quiet ride thus far, Macy asked for me to stop at the next gas station. I looked at my GPS, found the nearest Kwik Trip, about 3 miles ahead. One minute later, Macy spoke up again, “Uhh, could you possibly just pull over whenever possible? I think I might need to puke again.” Brian stared at me. Little did we know that this would the first pit stops of many more to come.
The last time I pulled over is when it happened. We were nearing the exit to La Crescent, the city in which we would be dropping Macy off at her car where we had picked her up earlier that day, and she suddenly shouted, “PULL OVER, PULL OVER!”. At this point I was on the actual exit, and didn’t feel as though it was a safe move for me to pull over right then and there. I looked up into the rear view mirror and saw her put her hand on her mouth and her cheeks inflate. I whipped my head at Brian, who was already turned towards me, staring at me with wide eyes.
I pulled over as soon as I could after we had gotten past the La Cresent exit, but before Macy had flung open the door, I heard the vile sound of puke exiting her mouth. I covered both my ears with my hands and looking in Brian’s direction shrieked, “AHHH, tell me when it’s done!” He looked towards the back seat and his jaw dropped. For what seemed like an eternity I sat there, shaking in disgust with my ears still covered, repeating aloud, “No, no, no, no, no!”
When she finished her disgusting deed and closed the car door, I smelled something. It was a smell that was not familiar to my sensitive senses, and I immediately held my breath. “Are you okay?” I managed to stutter, trying my best to breath in as little air as humanly possible. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I don’t know what made me so sick. I didn’t think I was gonna make it out the car that time, but I did!” I looked in the rear view mirror again, and Macy was sweating and looking out the window nervously. I looked to my right and Brian was holding in his breath, a look of disgust plastered across his face. We both smelled it.
I was too polite to call her out right away, and was more concerned about getting her to her car, sending her off, and investigating what exactly happened in the backseat, so I sped to the La Crescent High School parking lot where we had picked her up. After an awkward goodbye, I drove away quick and rolled down all my windows immediately, despite the single-digit temperatures outside. Brian and I breathed in the fresh air at the same time. “OH…MY…GOD…” I screamed aloud. “What…the…fuck did she do?!” I drove across the highway and into a small parking lot, parked, and got out of the car, Brian following my lead. “I don’t think she made it out the door” Brian said, deeply breathing in the winter air. I headed straight towards the backseat door. I took a deep breath, and opened the door slowly, as though some sort of rabid animal would be there, waiting to pounce towards me.
To my surprise, there was no sight of vomit. I pinched my nose, trying to figure out where the atrocious stench was coming from. Brian gasped. I whipped around and saw him pointing towards the seat. I blinked slowly and dramatically before looking, knowing nothing good was to come. “It’s…WET!” Brian screamed.
“Dad, shart means…well…it’s where you fart, and then shit a little.” My father busted out in uncontrollable laughter for a good thirty seconds. I sat there, unamused, staring at him straight in the eyes. Macy had sharted in my car. That night when it had happened, I left my car windows cracked open. I didn’t care if it snowed, or if my car wouldn’t start the next day. I had tried to clean it with the random bottles of cleaning supplies I found in my parents house late that night, as they lay fast asleep. But the next morning when I went out to check on it, I knew I needed to ask for professional parent help. “How do you KNOW?!” my dad managed to get out between his laughter. I waited for him to settle before I looked at him as seriously as I could, and slowly stated, “Dad, believe me…I just know. It smells like DEATH in my backseat. AND, there are small brown streaks.” He began laughing again, and I stood up, annoyed. “Well, if you can’t help me, then I guess I’ll have to go to the car wash and get the ultimate cleaning package or whatever. I cannot drive around in that MORGUE!”
Although I did have a tendency to be somewhat highly dramatic, my dad had no idea what he was getting into when he agreed to try to clean out that back seat. Thankfully for my gag reflexes, he didn’t ask me for assistance. I had been through enough at this point. I looked out the window as my dad began to try to salvage my backseat of my Ford Taurus, but I had to look away as the smell was still all too familiar.
About a half an hour later, my dad came back inside the house, pale faced and wide-eyed. He sighed deeply and said, “You weren’t joking…she SHARTED in your car!” As he began to describe the “worst thing he’d ever smelled” to my mom, I quickly raised my hand in the air and closing my eyes, stopped him. “Can we not?” I said quietly, taking a big breath, trying to get the pungency out of my mind.
I thought back to the popular children’s book by Taro Gomi, titled “Everyone Poops”. The illustrated book explains to children why and how people and various animals poop. “Some stop to poop. Others do it on the move.” A line reads. “Some poop here and there. Others do it in a special place.” Unfortunately, Taro Gomi forgot to mention that sometimes that “special place” is the backseat of your car.