I eat stinky stuff.
I come by it honestly - this is a family trait, and may be genetic. One of our family recipes, passed down from generation to generation, is literally a mixture of crushed, raw garlic and white vinegar. Growing up, there were more jars of pickled vegetables in the refrigerator than anything else. Sardines were eaten directly from the can and last week I caught my mother drinking the pickled herring juice directly from the jar.
So, it really should have come as no surprise to Eric when I decided this evening that an appropriate late-night snack would have been cracked green olives we got from the Italian grocer.
The timing was less than fortunate, as I had just posted about our anniversary (which starts in about 9 minutes) on Facebook, then wandered into the kitchen for just a touch of something.
I came back into the living room, to the following conversation:
"Oh. My. Lord. What did you EAT?"
"Were they stuffed with dead rats??"
A minute later...
"They're wafting all over you!"
I went upstairs and brushed my teeth.
And flossed (which, as you all know, I hate.)
And used mouthwash.
Eric came up about 10 minutes later, looking for me (probably thinking I had fallen asleep, since I pull a disappearing act from time to time.) "What are you doing?"
That's what you've been up here doing this whole time?... Oh my lord, it's lingering in your SOUL!"
Happy anniversary honey?
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