At some point of dire fridge desolation, Jerry turned to the canned goods in our cupboards and found a whole slew of beans: black, white and light red kidneys. So he decided to make a ghetto three-bean salad by mixing them into a giant bowl, topping them with garlic, a little salt and pepper, and his heavily-relied-upon seasoning staple, Franks hot sauce.
Then he ate the entire thing with a fork.
And loved it.
Now, when it's his turn to go to the store, he buys cans and cans of beans to concoct his favorite makeshift meal. And, in case it wasn't already obvious where I'm going with this, the gastrointestinal symphony Jerry conducts after eating such a feast can be a little jarring. Okay, a lot jarring. Like a skunk sprayed you in the face at close range.
So one night recently while we were laying in bed talking, a wall of stench slapped me in the nostrils mid-sentence.
"OH MY GOD! You've gotta give me a little warning about something like that!"
"What do you want me to do, nod?" he asked sarcastically, laughing.
"Yes. ... Yes, a nice polite nod would be perfect."
But his SBDs stopped being so silent. They were delivered with a cute little toot more appropriate for a small child, but just as deadly as three-bean-bowels Jer.
Then, as if the sound of his butt cheeks squeezing out a live one wasn't warning enough, a very comical blank, yet satisfied look crept across his face as he nodded, his hair swooshing on his pillowcase.
"Cut it out! I heard that one! You don't need to nod when your butt takes care of the announcement for y-- ... OH MY GOD!"
And here's where we get into our regular disagreement. Jerry believes the best way to deal with a fart in bed is to trap it underneath the covers where it languishes out of nose range. But I swear I can feel the skin cells on my lower body curling up and dying. I prefer to quickly waft it out into the open, setting it free where it can mix and mingle with cleaner air particles and dilute instantly.
So what usually ends up happening is Jerry does his best to institute a lockdown on the comforter while I frantically flap whatever portion of it he can't secure. He's usually screaming, "DON'T WAFT IT! DON'T WAFT IT!" while I'm pumping my arms in a seizure-like way screaming, "SET IT FREE! SET IT FREE!"
The rest of the most recent three-bean bowels night continued in much the same way: Jerry tooting, nodding just to make me crazy, him holding down his half of the covers while I pumped my side up and down.
When we thought the worst was over, when Jerry's butt finally seemed to have gotten over the three-bean storm, we turned out the light and said goodnight.
But just as I was drifting off to sleep, trying to dream about anything other than The Bog of Eternal Stench in "The Labyrinth," I heard it.