So, I’m just sitting here with my headphones on, happily writing this week’s column and listening to David Cook sing “Music of the Night” (ahh, be still my soul!) when suddenly…an acrid, almost metallic odor fills my nostrils.
I turn the volume down and hear hubby spraying something in the living room. I ask what the heck he is doing, and find out that he’s going nuts with the bottle of flea spray. We use Frontline/Advantage on all the pets, but he is convinced that a flea bit his ankle earlier tonight. Therefore, he decided that his bedtime would be a good time to SATURATE the living room in flea spray…forgetting that one of us was still up working.
Can I smack him? Please? That stuff reeks like some kind of chemical refinery and I get to inhale it for the next few hours because, with my deadlines, there’s no way I’m going to bed anytime soon.
Men. Gotta love ’em.