So, just an hour ago I was at the kitchen counter cutting tomatoes and peppers while my husband was right outside the kitchen window grilling the chicken that would be on our delicious grilled chicken salads . . . when suddenly - I SMELLED POOP.
That's right, I smelled poop and it was strong. However, just as quickly as the scent came to me, it was quickly gone. I just stood there like: "WTF, why did I just totally smell poop?" Even though the stench had disappeared, I started sniffing the counter frantically, and then the lettuce and the veggies and finally even the floor. Yes, I was on my hands and knees sniffing the floor hoping to find poop so I could take care of it.
Nothing.
I stood up and distractedly went back to my preparations, keeping a nostril alert. After a little while I sort of forgot about it and then, once again out of nowhere, POOP SMELL.
I CANNOT BE BOTHERED WITH POOP!
Oh. My. God. I resumed my sniff-search until a moment later I was interrupted by my husband calling that the chicken was done. I decided once again to let it go, and I went outside with the salads. My husband took them so he could put the grilled chicken on top and I went to sit down at the patio table. A moment later he brought to me my lovely plate of food and I picked up my fork just as the smell of poop filled my nose again.
"What the f**** do you smell that?" I said to him.
"Smell what?" he asked.
"Poop! I keep smelling poop!"
He sniffed a few times and told me that he did not smell anything even remotely like poop.
"I am not imagining this," I told him. "I smelled it in the kitchen and I smell it out here now."
I started sniffing my plate. There was nothing at first and then my nose got right next to a piece of chicken and it might as well have been a piece of shit because it smelled exactly like it!
"Oh Christ this chicken totally smells like shit," I cried to my husband.
He sniffed again and again but he insisted that to him it did not smell like shit. I don't exactly remember the next few words or what could have made me decide to cut the chicken and take a bite . . . maybe just good old fashioned denial . . . but I cut that chicken, stabbed it with my fork, put a chunk of salad and tomato on with it and put it in my mouth. At first everything was OK. I chewed and swallowed and it tasted fine and then . . .
"Oh . . . my God. I am going to throw up. This chicken totally has the after taste of SHIT!"
My husband was stunned because he did not smell or taste anything unusual, but still, as I unloaded all of my poop chicken onto his plate, unable to eat any of it and shocked that I could still eat the salad, he became increasingly uncomfortable with the entire idea, especially because after about a minute the smell drifted to me yet again and I covered my mouth and made a gagging sound and mumbled something about shit and chicken and vomit. Eventually I noticed that all of his chicken was off to the side of his plate and he said that, even though he didn't smell anything, my discomfort had gotten to him and now he couldn't eat it either.
Why in God's name would grilled chicken smell and taste just like poop?
Well, since we hardly ate any dinner, now we can have ice cream. I will NOT be getting hard chocolate!
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Dirty Laundry
Of all the household chores there are to do, don't you think laundry is the absolute worst? I hate it. I want to kill laundry . . . and here's something that makes it even more intolerable.
You can put it off for a really long time. I mean hampers are generally pretty deep and most of us have more than one and the items you put in there can be seriously compacted to fit so much stuff you don't even realize what you have until you finally begin taking it out. Then, its like it never freakin' ends. You can't even believe how much laundry you have and now you are stuck for the next 5 hours washing, drying, folding, wanting to die.
Oh and of course you always get a nice white sock accidentally mixed in with your darkest jeans so that now one stupid sock is sort of gray and you have to toss the pair. Then there's another pair that invariably ends up with one missing. That's right . . . every single piece of clothing in your entire house is in front of you, folded and ready to be put away and yet, somehow, one freakin' sock that wasn't missing when you started this nightmare - is now gone. I mean how is that possible? Where the frigaroni hell could it be?
Ya, and I'm not done. How about when a bra strap or the thongy part of your not-cheap thongs gets wrapped around that center tube-like-thing of the washer and totally stretched out and deformed as it spins wildly. Oh and don't even get me started on how if the clothes are dispersed unevenly the whole GD thing shakes like its going to explode . . . and all of this is happening in the freakin' basement too, the furthest point in the house from where the laundry originates.
There was only time when this was a sort of good thing, laundry in the basement. That was about a month ago when I started doing laundry not realizing that the hose that drains the laundry into our utility sink had been taken out of the sink when we were cleaning and painting the cement floor to get ready to sell the house. That's right, I didn't know . . . and I started the washer. About 10 minutes later, when it was time for it to drain, I was upstairs in the kitchen and thought: "Huh, the water sounds a little weird. I wonder . . . Oh. My. Effin. God!"
I raced downstairs and the hose was draining all over the floor. I grabbed it, but there was no way not to aim it at myself, and became drenched, head to toe. Panicking, I placed it in the sink but didn't secure it enough so it popped out and sprayed all over me again. Screaming for my husband, I finally got it positioned in the sink but not before I was completely soaked and most of it had emptied onto the floor. Not once did it occur to me to turn off the GD washing machine.
I totally, completely despise you laundry.
The only items I don't really mind laundering are bedding and towels. They don't have all sorts of annoying instructions on the tags with little symbols (that you don't even know the meaning of) for what you can and can't do. Folding them isn't rocket science, except for those bastardly fitted sheets that I just pretty much bunch into a ball, then flatten . . . easy. Its OK if they shrink, unlike my husband's tee-shirts turned half-shirts. They look so so nice folded and put away that it can almost make you forget the horrors of the laundry room. Almost.
You can put it off for a really long time. I mean hampers are generally pretty deep and most of us have more than one and the items you put in there can be seriously compacted to fit so much stuff you don't even realize what you have until you finally begin taking it out. Then, its like it never freakin' ends. You can't even believe how much laundry you have and now you are stuck for the next 5 hours washing, drying, folding, wanting to die.
Oh and of course you always get a nice white sock accidentally mixed in with your darkest jeans so that now one stupid sock is sort of gray and you have to toss the pair. Then there's another pair that invariably ends up with one missing. That's right . . . every single piece of clothing in your entire house is in front of you, folded and ready to be put away and yet, somehow, one freakin' sock that wasn't missing when you started this nightmare - is now gone. I mean how is that possible? Where the frigaroni hell could it be?
Ya, and I'm not done. How about when a bra strap or the thongy part of your not-cheap thongs gets wrapped around that center tube-like-thing of the washer and totally stretched out and deformed as it spins wildly. Oh and don't even get me started on how if the clothes are dispersed unevenly the whole GD thing shakes like its going to explode . . . and all of this is happening in the freakin' basement too, the furthest point in the house from where the laundry originates.
There was only time when this was a sort of good thing, laundry in the basement. That was about a month ago when I started doing laundry not realizing that the hose that drains the laundry into our utility sink had been taken out of the sink when we were cleaning and painting the cement floor to get ready to sell the house. That's right, I didn't know . . . and I started the washer. About 10 minutes later, when it was time for it to drain, I was upstairs in the kitchen and thought: "Huh, the water sounds a little weird. I wonder . . . Oh. My. Effin. God!"
I raced downstairs and the hose was draining all over the floor. I grabbed it, but there was no way not to aim it at myself, and became drenched, head to toe. Panicking, I placed it in the sink but didn't secure it enough so it popped out and sprayed all over me again. Screaming for my husband, I finally got it positioned in the sink but not before I was completely soaked and most of it had emptied onto the floor. Not once did it occur to me to turn off the GD washing machine.
I totally, completely despise you laundry.
The only items I don't really mind laundering are bedding and towels. They don't have all sorts of annoying instructions on the tags with little symbols (that you don't even know the meaning of) for what you can and can't do. Folding them isn't rocket science, except for those bastardly fitted sheets that I just pretty much bunch into a ball, then flatten . . . easy. Its OK if they shrink, unlike my husband's tee-shirts turned half-shirts. They look so so nice folded and put away that it can almost make you forget the horrors of the laundry room. Almost.
So, in summary, I really can't be bothered with laundry, but still found myself, JUST TODAY, drawn to these two trendy accessories. Yes, despite my complete hate-affair with dirty clothes, items like this seem to make it a little more tolerable. If only they could stay empty, but alas . . . one stupid sock and a stretched out bra are definitely waiting for me.
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