Yesterday was a rare day at home for me.
Mr. worked from home yesterday - so it was a day of the two of us bumbling around trying to get our individual tasks done.
Mr. spent most of the day perched on a stool at the island pecking at his computer.
But that's not all he did.
After lunch I heard this sound:
Then came the smell. It wasn't roses. I can't exactly describe the stench. I went running for my gas mask.
He spent the afternoon farting and tooting and generally stinking up the joint.
At one point, as I donned my gas mask for the hundredth time, I threatened him with blogging about him. He chuckled as he sprayed Lysol around himself and said, "Go ahead... I deserve it."
That, my friends, should give you a clue as to the level of toxicity in my family room.
"It's the onions!", he said.
"The onions in the salads you make don't do this."
"Oh, yeah... you're right."
"Listen, you are killing me, here! Even the animals can't take it. Zeb went next door to get away from the smell. He WON'T come home. The air in this room is so bad, it's a green haze. You've got to stop... puhleezzze!"
He just couldn't help himself...
He was proud of this, people!
I shook my head in defeat.
I headed next door to hide under the dining room table with Zeb.