As longtime readers are probably well aware, I am a farter.  Yes we all are, Anne, I well know.  But how many of you have actually scorched pubic hair? Yeah, that’s what I thought, I say in my superior tone, from upon my cold compress throne.

Anyway, as one of those middle-aged women who has basically given up on notions of romance or being seen as the mysterious fairer sex, laden with silky underpants or make-up, I’d gotten in the habit of warning my husband as he entered the threshold:  “STINKY FART” so he might politely veer off into some other room.  That’s some marriage-saving maneuvers, I felt pretty sure — throwing yourself on an embarrassment grenade to save the lives of those you love.

Unbeknownst to me, this behavior was apparently quite irritating to my husband, who, six months ago (about three years into me calling STINKY FART), sat on the bed next to me and said, “I KNOW.  You don’t have to tell me, Anne.”  Trust me on this, his green faced, pained expression underlined as he once again clarified, “I KNOW ALREADY.”

Wanting to be a good partner, I noted his feedback, changed my behavior, and have spent the past six months saying nothing.  No matter how stinky.  No matter how heroic my need to save him from the fiery enchilada of walking face first into a gigantic floating ghost poop.  It’s a true horror – up he comes the stairs, into the room he enters, unawares.  I know EVERYTHING, but I’m helpless to stop it.  Green he goes.  Awkward he seems, taking up his business as if he’s not trying to avoid death by asphyxiation.

So now you tell me what to say to this mutherfucker.  Last week, I was up in bed with one of those farts that makes you pause and wonder if you should go and get a colonoscopy just to make sure everything’s OK.  Then Stephen King themed Stinky Farts show  starts: Up the creaking stairs comes my husband.  Closer…. closer.  Into our darkened, booby-trapped room.  I cannot save him!  AND THEN BAM — SWAMPMONSTER ATTACK!  Cue husband’s blinking and eyes turning slightly pink, the reflexive step backward, as if in self-defense. In the uncomfortable silence, he staggers to a nearby window, opens it.  Returns to sit on the bed.  Sniffs.
I say nothing because that is the mutherfucking deal.

The balls on this guy.  He has the nerve to turn to me in an accusatory tone and say, “Did… did you fart?”

I need ALL the smartass comments you have.

PS:  My parents are in town for the next two weeks.  Little gets here Friday, Middle next Wednesday.  Wheeee!