When Chris came home from work this evening, I was in a foul mood. I didnt feel well, and neither did the Gremlin. I was also giving serious thought to burning down my neighbor's house. Before you get your busy little fingers dialing 9-1-1 I've cooled down (marginally) and have decided against lighting their house on fire (for now). Unfortunately, Chris got the brunt of my ranting upon hitting the door step. I was telling him all about it like some sort of angry woodpecker and I was going to keep poking at him until eventually he fell over, assuring my victory. Victory of what, I dont know. It was imperative that I win something, though.
We laid down in bed, him to read, and me to continue sharing my rage (as if he needs any extra) when all of a sudden, it happened.
Him: "Baby!"
Me: "What?"
Him: "I'm so glad you shared." (That's sarcasm, by the way)
Me: "Well yes, I'm so glad you were listening. I know I was talking a lot..."
Him: "Yeah, talking out your ass."
Me: (I roll over in bed, giggling.)
A few minutes later, 'it' happened again. I peek over my shoulder to test his reaction. He has set his book aside and is giving me a very stern look.
Me: "What! I'm sorry. GOSH. I told you I wasnt feeling well." (I might have tried to slide the blame onto Monty at this point as well.)
Him: (His reply was to pull the covers aside, lift up his knee and let out a big stinky fart.)
Me: "What the hell! Yours stink. Mine smell like roses."
Him: "Yeah, if roses smell like ass."
Me: "I guess this means we're comfortable with each other."
Him: "I'm not feeling real comfortable right now. All it would take is one tiny spark to set this room ablaze."
I have admitted to nothing, not even in this blog, because I can still try to say the cat did it.
He shuts out the light, and turns over with his back to me. I'm feeling much better, until he farts again.
This means war.
If one of us doesnt make it out alive, chances are it was a. death by methane or b. death by pillow smothering.
We laid down in bed, him to read, and me to continue sharing my rage (as if he needs any extra) when all of a sudden, it happened.
Him: "Baby!"
Me: "What?"
Him: "I'm so glad you shared." (That's sarcasm, by the way)
Me: "Well yes, I'm so glad you were listening. I know I was talking a lot..."
Him: "Yeah, talking out your ass."
Me: (I roll over in bed, giggling.)
A few minutes later, 'it' happened again. I peek over my shoulder to test his reaction. He has set his book aside and is giving me a very stern look.
Me: "What! I'm sorry. GOSH. I told you I wasnt feeling well." (I might have tried to slide the blame onto Monty at this point as well.)
Him: (His reply was to pull the covers aside, lift up his knee and let out a big stinky fart.)
Me: "What the hell! Yours stink. Mine smell like roses."
Him: "Yeah, if roses smell like ass."
Me: "I guess this means we're comfortable with each other."
Him: "I'm not feeling real comfortable right now. All it would take is one tiny spark to set this room ablaze."
I have admitted to nothing, not even in this blog, because I can still try to say the cat did it.
He shuts out the light, and turns over with his back to me. I'm feeling much better, until he farts again.
This means war.
If one of us doesnt make it out alive, chances are it was a. death by methane or b. death by pillow smothering.
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