You may (or may not) recall a similarly-titled post I once wrote about armpit hair. Rest assured, if there is a "That's how Much I Love You; 3rd Times A Charm" it will ALSO be about something remotely disgusting I've done brought on by Mr. Flintstone's euphoria-enducing love.
Did I just inadvertantly spoil this post for you?
I've been packing up my house in anticipation of my upcoming move from College Station to San Antonio. While Darlene was over last week, she asked me if she could cook some chicken stir-fry in my freezer, to which I replied, "What chicken stir-fry?" She showed me a packaged Panda-Express frozen meal I once purchased in 2007.
So I decided it was time to bag up all the petrified left-overs and freezer-burned entrees dwelling within my refrigerator unit. This plan was poorly thought out, however, because I dragged this gigantic bag of spoiled food out to my garage garbage can on Wednesday where it has since been marinating in the Texas summer heat.
I drove Darlene back to our home town on Friday and returned Saturday to move some furniture from my place back to my mom's. The smell emanating from my garage on Saturday was comparable to the odor (I would imagine) that'd occur if tuna and broccoli had a love child. That smell made me think one thing, well two if you count the tuna-broccoli baby; The Trash MUST Be Taken Out On Time This Week.
Reader(s), I'm pretty responsible--hey, I had a betta fish once AND I've kept Shakespeare alive and disease free for like four years. But admittedly, I'm pretty lackadaisical when it comes to taking my trash to the curb on Monday mornings. So I went back to Killeen and told my mom I had to leave; Mr. Flintstone & I had an impromptu meeting I had to attend and the sooner the better so I could get back to College Station before Monday to get my trash out on time.
Well, as you can likely guess I extended my trip with Mr. Flintstone well beyond trash pick up time. When I came home last night, I was almost floored by the smell. Exiting my car, I was apprehensive about even walking past my trash can for fear of going into a fit of dry-heaving, or worse being snatched up by some evil being spawned from the decaying food remains living in my trash can and hungry for blood. <--Fortunately, that didn't happen BUT the smell did manage to get stronger and waft its way into my living room.
That's right, reader(s), my love for Flintstone is so blinding, I abdicate my ohso important responsibilities just to spend a few more hours with him. Be flattered, baby; be very flattered.