I don’t need a book to tell me men are from Mars and women are from Venus.
One look at my kitchen pantry tells me everything I need to know.
There are chili cheese Fritos in there.
I know I didn’t buy them. There aren’t enough symbols on my keyboard to adequately describe the ICK factor here. And thank God the techno geeks (who secretly rule our world and spend their days sticking it to everyone who bullied them in junior high gym class) haven’t perfected Smell-O-Vision yet.
And it’s not enough my husband eats them. He’s sharing them with the dog too.
“Quit feeding chili cheese Fritos to the dog.”
My husband only smirked in response. Then proceeded to stick his hand back into the bag, pull out another chip and toss it in the dog’s direction.
And being the garbage-disposal-not-so-very-disguised-as-a-Golden Retriever, she hopped up and snatched it right out of the air before it could hit the floor.
Why the hurry? I’ve no idea. The taste of chili cheese-flavored corn chips isn’t gonna be all that affected by the Five Second Rule.
Of course, we’re not talking about a wildly discerning palate here.
She eats poo too. Guess I should just be happy my husband doesn’t.