Part One

I am always trying to get Leah to smell my stinky armpits, but she always refuses. Yes, this is the selfish woman I am married to. I don’t understand why she doesn’t want to share in the magic smells of my body.

Last week, while I was sick with the worst stomach flu in memory, I was having a shower and trying to wash the sickness away when Leah came into the bathroom to collect my dirty clothes because she was doing a load of laundry. She grabbed up my clothes, but stopped once she got to my hoodie and asked, “Is this clean?”

“Yes, I think so.” I really thought so. She sniffed it and made an awful retching sound.

“I just put it on today, so I didn’t realize it would smell bad.”

“Well, it does. I’m washing it. I think the flu has made you smellier.”

As I finished shampooing my hair it occurred to me that I had just unintentionally tricked Leah into essentially smelling my armpits and I made a vow then—next time it will be intentional.

Part Two

Again last week while sick, I was pouring myself a glass of ginger ale (Canada Dry, to be precise) to hopefully calm the angry stomach gods with this root-beverage sacrifice. It was a newly opened bottle, but another bottle must have broke at the store because there was sticky syrup all over the outside and my fingers got sticky as a result.

While pouring I thought, “This sticky bottle is the worst. I better not spill and make my glass sticky.” At that exact moment, the fizz poured over the lip of my glass and down the sides. I quickly wiped off my glass but the damage was done. It was sticky.