I can sometimes be… dangerously gaseous.
There, I said it. Anyone who knows me already knows this information. Anyone who doesn’t, well, consider yourself informed. Long (long) the object of family jokes, I have learned to accept this truth.
Which is why I didn’t think twice about indulging in hummus, baba ganoosh and other wonderful dishes at Pita Jungle last night. Even though I KNEW what it would do to me.
This morning a particularly toxic fume made it’s way out of me and into the kids’ room. Violet had just cast an accusatory glance my way when Daniel came racing in the room at full speed. Upon hitting the wall cloud, he froze in his tracks. His eyes went wide, he sniffed the air, and he declared loudly:
“IT SMELLS LIKE HOT DOGS IN HERE!! ARE WE HAVING HOT DOGS TODAY?! ARE WE?!?!”
If my most awful emissions smell like hot dogs to him, that boy and I are a match made in HEAVEN.