I went grocery shopping on Tuesday and decided I would make ratatouille for dinner that night. (Sidebar: Please tell me I am not the only person that finds it strange that they bagged my flour with my milk. I mean, what if the milk leaked?!) since it is a nice summery meal but still warm and hearty. It is delicious, has all veggies, and I had never made if for Fiancé before. Perfect!
So I am going to town, cooking up a storm. All while Fiancé sits on his butt and watches tv. Yeah, don’t worry. I don’t need your help!
So dinner is finally ready and he looks at the food like it is an alien (he’s never had ratatouille or couscous, but thankfully eats anything and everything) and blobs it on his plate. Dinner happened, everything was fine.
And then it started.
Yes, yes it started. Although he was not alone on this ship, I had the joys of listening to his magical fireworks the entire night.
Did you know that here are multiple ways boys enjoy passing gas? Because there are. There is just the regular way of sitting there and pretending like nothing happened, the silent but deadly way (in which they start to laugh once they can smell it), the laughing hysterically when it’s really loud, and the lean on one ass cheek and lift the other one up to let it rip. And those are just his “usual” ways. I don’t play along with the pull-my-finger trick, so he doesn’t even bother with that one anymore.
I blame the vegetables.
Needless to say, I won’t be making this meal anytime soon.