Four Signs He’s Cheating – Is Your Husband a Serial Farter-Upper?
Let me tell you about my dear friend Kathy. Sweet Kathy, the kinda woman who uses heirloom tomatoes in her sangria and actually thinks kale tastes good. She came to me in tears last week at spin class, her expensive leggings ruined by snot and despair. Why? Because she finally, finally noticed the signs. The odiferous, gaseous, unholy signs of a very specific kind of infidelity. The kind they don’t talk about on Dr. Phil. The kind that smells like a bad decision and cheap taco meat. I’m talking, of course, about a Serial Farter-Upper.
Ladies, lock up your husbands and Febreeze your homes, because if you’ve ever had a sneaking suspicion that your husband is cheating but couldn’t find any lipstick on his collar, it might not be another woman you’re smelling. It might be the aftermath of betrayal, unleashed upon your new Pottery Barn sectional. So how do you know if he’s blowing someone else’s sox off before he comes home to… toot yours? Here are the four signs to watch for.
1. The Mysterious Leftovers With Beans. Okay, this is Kathy’s story. Every other Thursday, her husband “Jerry” would waltz in glowing, reeking, not of another woman’s perfume, but of the most pungent, noxious, five-alarm chili known to man. And he never brought a doggy bag home for her. He had two bowl portions at his “late meeting,” but when pressed about the amazing restaurant he’d discovered, he’d get all vague. Oh, it was just a work thing. Right, Jerry. You expect me to believe some big corporation is dishing out intestinal catastrophe during contract negotiations and only inviting certain mid-level managers? No. He’s eating at HER place. She probably uses heirloom beans in it. The sign? The evidence is right there in the gas chamber he creates in your shared den an hour after his arrival.
2. Overly Specific Flatulence Excuses. A normal, faithful man just farts. He maybe mutters “pardon me” and blames it on the heavy cream. A Farter-Upper, like Jerry, gets defensive. “Well, hon,” he might say, aiming one directly at a decorative vase of gingham, “if Patricia at work brings her three-bean salad one more time, I’m just gonna have to work from home.” SEE? HE JUST NAMED HER. PATRICIA. And did you see any evidence of a three-bean salad being discussed in his last performance review? No. Her only “contribution” to that “project” was giving him an excuse for the ol’ Dutch oven.
3. His Performance… In Bed… Is… Gassy. Nothing ruins a moment of passion, or at least the five minutes of pre-sleep duty you endure a few times a month, like an air horn between the sheets. But this isn’t just a slip of a “frank & beans.” No. This is a full, noxious, and LOUD symphony, followed by a muffled smirk. Because let’s be honest, he’s not really there with you. He’s still thinking about CHLOE from accounting. He’s picturing her amazing queso dip and what glorious, bassy noises she allowed him to make on the couch of her downtown chic apartment while they binged a show on HBO. It’s a fart-borne love letter to his secret. You, my dear, are just the recipient of the foul aftershocks.
4. An Unaccounted increase In Your Air-Freshener Budget. Check the statements. Where is the money going? And where did that industrial-sized Air Wick purchase for “Jerry’s side of the car” come from? You didn’t buy it – who did? Or was it purchased for him? Does your husband seem like the kind of person who would care about turning his car into a fart prison? No. But someone who rides with him might be.
It’s not your fault, honey. Some men are just drawn to a certain… je ne sais quoi… that has its own bouquet. You can’t fix him. Take a page out of Kathy’s book. While Jerry was “working late” with “Janice from HR,” she packed her Bags-N-Bows and her half of the Cointreau collection. And she let one glorious, window-shaking, room-clearing ripper fly in the middle of the foyer right before she left for good.
Don’t be a victim to the Silent, Stinky Assassin (SSA). Know the signs. And open a window. A really, really big one. In your heart.
