So, Mate took the kids to a special dance practice today so they can perform at the Rivercats stadium this Friday. (For the record, that's the trifecta of things to do this weekend when I'm supposed to be packing. RiverCats Friday, Soccer Saturday, Mother's Day Sunday, pack Sunday night. I thought I'd mention that.)
Anyway--I stayed home and worked, with the door open ever so slightly to let in the fresh air, and the dog parked right in front of the door, polluting said fresh air.
It was horrible. The stench would hit me, I'd look down at the dog, and she'd be looking soulfully back as though *I* was the one who had tried to gas us both.
I complained about it on FB, and as though she could sense me complaining about her, she got up and ran away before I could take a pic of her "look of shame" but I have proof. The family got home about forty-five minutes later and Mate took two steps into the door and said, "Oh my God, who farted?"
IT WAS THAT BAD.
Mate, he brought food--Adalberto's carne asada burritos are the best, but they're pretty big, and they're all meat. I cut mine in half to save part for tomorrow, and went to microwave some brussels sprouts to offset all that meat. Of course, we started talking about the dog and her stench-o-rama and as we did so, ZoomBoy laid on the couch and pet her and she clambered all over his body and then made herself comfy in the "gas chamber"-- that spot that forms right under your ass and behind your knees.
"Careful," ZoomBoy warned her. "That's a dangerous place to sit." And then--because he's a 15 YO boy and can fart on command--ripped one. And another. And a third.
Dog didn't move. Dad laughed. "Are you kidding? She sleeps there next to mom every night--you think you've got game!"
"Yeah," I told him. "I'm afraid you're weak shit--"
He burst out laughing--and breaking more wind--and the dog ran for safety.
And at that moment, Mate says, "Would you stop it? The whole house is starting to smell!"
And at that moment, my brussels sprouts dinged, and ZoomBoy says, "Nope--that's not me. That's mom's chicken farts." Because I'm the only one who appreciates brussels sprouts apparently, and yes, that is what the family calls them.
"Yeah, that smell is chicken farts," Mate said, judging the air. "You need to get those, before they kill the dogs."
You do realize this is dinner conversation. And the only reason Squish wasn't there to participate was that she got home and fell into bed, right?
Anyway, for the record? The dogs are still trying to kill us, ZoomBoy's gas is worse than mine, and the buttered chicken farts were delicious.