I have gas. Now, I don’t know what it is that I’m eating, or if the stench changes with my age, but I have gas, and it smells. It doesn’t bother me…. but I am aware that it offends others who walk through the mist emanating from my ass.

Had I known hubby would be brining in the lawn man to hang a shelf in my bathroom, I would have decimated another room; also, I would have gotten dressed. That’s right, I am stuck under my covers, in a top and underwear- three sizes too small (but that’s another story). Apparently there is a size after “Large,” in the panty department and I am a few years late to the party.

Anyhow, I’m under my own covers, trying to be as still as Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon, and the man and hubby keep walking in and out of my room- passing me as I am stuck under my covers- beginning to melt. As you may recall from other posts, I am going through the change.

Everything was under control- literally, until my eldest decided to hop under the covers with me- breaking the seal of my Dutch oven. And when the seal was broken, it hit her- hard.

Unfortunately for all of us, her fit of disgust tipped off the men and the room began to permeate with what would probably be a thick cloud under a black light. Needless to say, had hubby given me more than a 60 second warning that our Bell Man was going to be coming into my boudoir, I’d at least grabbed the Air Wick.