Good afternoon all!
WOW! Once again, the month has flown by. All I can say is, blame it on hand surgery because I had that two weeks ago and sort of limited my typing. But we all know the real story about me: I was enjoying the rare perfect days we get here in June. I was sitting in my chair swing watching people walk their dogs and I was pondering all the books I'm supposed to read and all the books I'm supposed to write and all that was erased by the bigger question: How many episodes of "Call the Midwife" can I jam into my evening?
But I have to share this with you, because, well, it's Hubby and I'm starting to think now that in spite of his protests, he really, really, really wants to be in the blog.
We have in our town several walking paths that wind from one city park to another. One route in particular takes the walker through a wetland area and opens up to a beautiful shopping center where things like dinner and coffee can be purchased. A few nights ago, Hubby suggested we take a walk on one of these paths. Park the car and walk to the Target. I envisioned a nice stroll on the wooden bridge than twists around the wetlands. I pictured birds gentle settled on tall green cattails. I smiled
|I was picturing this.|
Reality, as it often is, was less poetic.
|I got this.|
And that's where the similarity ended.
I've been on field trips with my kids to both of these locations. They're fun places to go on a field trip with snarky seventh graders because it puts the fear of GOD into them. Yes, kids, there are jobs out there that actually do smell like...well, you know. Yes, fun to walk greasy, noisy, disruptive, all knowing seventh graders lose bits of their lunch one tank room at a time. Not so fun taking a walk on an early summer evening when the heat of the day was just high enough to bring out all the best smells.
If you can picture it, the "stink canopy" around the water treatment plant and the recycling center (which are next to each other) is a bit like a cone. The closer you move inside the cone, the stronger the stink. So what started out as a whiff of something that made me wonder if my cooking was gas inducing (it is, but that's another blog for another day) ended up, at its worst, as the sensation that I was ankle deep in fresh, hot pooh.
I'm not one to keep my feelings to myself. I had already mentioned, loudly, and in a cranky voice, that this was NOT the path I thought we were taking, this was a far longer walk and my foot, hip, knee, ankle and big toe all hurt. And now this...this...FETID AIR.
I may have added gagging noises for effect, I'm not sure.
Hubby is very patient, and always a guy to try and make the best of things. However, and this is why he's in the blog today, he may have tried a bit too hard.
You see, Hubby tried to make me believe that what I was smelling was not, in fact, the aroma of untreated sewer water. Instead, he insisted, I was smelling MULCH, fresh MULCH which sat in piles for the taking outside the recycling center.
Friends, I am a gullible person. Those who know me know I tend to believe or start to believe pretty much anything anyone says with a tone of authority. Hubby loves making me fall for everything he says, 90% of which is made up nonsense. (Our debate about how he can tell a Genesis song from a Phil Collins song is now in its 29th year.) But when someone tells me that the smell I smell is NOT pooh, but instead, treated lumber and earth shredded and mixed together like a heaping mound of pulled pork, then I have to stop limping and start giving my "You've got to be kidding, you really
think I'm that stupid?" stare.
He didn't launch into the mulch farce right away. First, he tried to tell me it was the smell of cow. My cousins have dairy farms. I know what cow smells like. Then he said it was pig. No sale again buddy. I know what pig smells like because I grew up in a town where they raised pigs.
"It's human!" I said, feeling a lot like Charleton Heston in "Soylant Green."
"It's not human," he said, waving his hand at me like I was a mosquito or something. "It's mulch! It's mulch from the recycling center.
"That," I said, gagging a little, "Is not mulch. That is human waste and this is NOT the lovely woodland walk I thought we were going on!"
"No, no, that's mulch. It's all mulch. We should get some."
"We're not getting mulch that smells like pooh."
"But it doesn't, it smells like mulch."
We walked another quarter mile to where they actually do have big piles of mulch there for people to come get if they want it. Hubby grinned in triumph, "See, mulch."
"WE ARE HALF A MILE AWAY FROM THE WATER TREATMENT PLANT AND THIS SMELLS NOTHING LIKE WHAT I WAS SMELLING BEFORE. THIS IS MULCH."
We continued to Target in relative silence. As penance, I made him walk back the two miles to the car. I got an iced tea and a People Magazine and waited for him to come get me. Mulch or pooh, I wasn't about to walk through that stink cloud again.
A few other notes and news since I've been gone a bit.
1) I'm about 88% positive the couple in the curtained area next to mine had sex while waiting for him to have carpal tunnel surgery. They were talking, then they were whispering, then there was the distinct sound of sheets moving around and then they were whispering again. By the time the nurse came to wheel him into surgery, they were chatting again about kids and grandkids.
I should have asked the lady if they did it, but then I didn't.
I shared this with Hubby who said, "Wow. I didn't realize spouses could go in to the curtained area. I'll know next time.
Since I've already had both hands done for carpal tunnel, I'm thinking he missed his chance.
2) People really don't listen to the words that come out of their mouths. I've been selling my books at the local farmer's markets and believe me I hear all kinds of unintentional insults. The best one was two weeks ago a gent walked up and I asked him what he liked to read. He said, "I read pretty much everything...except fiction...because I'm a grown up."
I really wanted to mention to him that Star Wars is fiction...you know, because he was clearly DEEP into living that life...but I didn't want to see the grown up cry.
My other favorite unintentional insult, besides, "What libraries are your books in? I only read books from the library." (which is great, except I'm trying to SELL my books, thank you very much) is one I got from a woman who stops by my booth every time I'm there. She stops, we chat, she moves along. She finally actually touched one of the books and asked which of my titles she'd like. That's a bit like asking which of my favorite shirts is going to look good on you. I asked her what she liked to read. She said, "I love to read everything, except I can't read anything with any violence, or sex, or suspense or any arguing or really anything that's any kind of conflict. And I really don't care for anything that's a true story."
So, recipe books and picture books for babies. Sorry, I don't write that.
3) I'm sort of chuckling. Now that Peaches is living far, far away from home, she's finally understanding some of my "freak outs." I got a text from her recently saying, "I finally get why you got so mad when we just left laundry in the washing machine and didn't put it in the drier. It really smells and you have to do it all over again."
Epic win for me.