Lisa Scottoline: Stinky

I just reached an all-time low.

I’ll tell you the story, but proceed at your own risk.

So there I was, late at night, in bed with four dogs, and talking to Francesca on the phone, as I always do before I go to sleep.

And I was wearing a flannel pajama top, a fleece jersey, a wool hat and underwear.

I know, it’s very sexy.

Why do I dress like that for bed?

Because I can.

In any event, I felt something inside my underwear, near my butt, and it was scratchy, like a piece of paper.

I thought it was toilet paper.

That’s how big of a pig I can be.

Some people have toilet paper stuck to their shoes.

For me, it sticks to my left cheek.

Most of the time, I turn the other cheek.

Sorry.

Honestly I never know what’s going on down there.

It could’ve been gum, for all I know.

Anyway I reached my hand around my butt and pulled out whatever it was, and guess what it turned out to be.

A stinkbug.

This is an absolutely true story.

It just happened.

There was a stinkbug in my butt.

If that’s not an all-time low, I don’t know what is.

Of course I shrieked and so did Francesca.

That’s what daughters are for.

To start shrieking when you shriek.

To shriek in solidarity.

We shrieked for a long time.

When Francesca stopped shrieking, she asked, worried, “Mom, what happened? Are you OK? Did someone break in?“

And then I told her.

A stinkbug broke in.

He broke and entered my butt.

And then she burst into gales of laughter. When Francesca stopped laughing, she said, “Oh that’s gnarly!”

Which made me kind of proud.

Gnarly sounds cooler than gross.

So I hung up the phone and ran to the throw the stinkbug away in the bathroom, which was when I found that I had inadvertently crushed it in my palm.

By the way, just so you know, I never kill bugs, even stinkbugs. I catch them in a glass and put them outside. The only exception is when I find them in my butt.

Then I take revenge.

You have to buy me dinner to get into my panties.

Anyway I washed my hand really well, but it stank.

As in reeked. As in had the most awful, unbearable stench.

Not from my butt.

My butt smells like roses.

Have you ever had stinkbug on your hand? If you have, you know I’m right.

I would rather my hand smell like butt than stinkbug.

I couldn’t get the stinkbug smell to stop stinking. My hands stank. My bed stank. My entire bedroom stank. Even one of the dogs, Peach, stank, because she was sleeping on my pillow.

I sprayed perfume and even that stank.

I went back to bed and tried to fall asleep despite the stench.

Then I realized I wasn’t completely sure how long the stinkbug had been in my underwear.

I had been on my butt all day working, because I’m on deadline, so God knows how long I had my little stowaway.

I didn’t feel anything, but we all know I’m celibate, so I’m dead below the waist.

For all I know, he could’ve been there all day.

Or for the past 10 years.

And this is where I tell you that I might’ve been wearing yesterday’s underwear.

Which sometimes happens when I’m on deadline, because I take off my clothes at night, leave them in the bathroom, and then put them back on the next morning.

So there you have it.

The stinkbug in my butt wasn’t a new low.

The fact that it was second-day underwear is.

Now you know everything.

The truth stinks.

Look for Lisa and Francesca’s humor collection, “I See Life Through Rosé-Colored Glasses,” and Lisa’s novel, “Someone Knows,” in stores now. Also you can preorder Francesca’s debut novel, “Ghosts of Harvard,” publishing May 5, 2020.