Monday, July 20, 2009
I didn't make it to church Sunday.
I didn't make it to church Sunday, because I was so livid after I discovered my boys had not only completely destroyed the game room in some sort of twisted game of "Lets Makes Our Parental Units Even More Exasperated," but that they had also been the cause of the curious three week old odor downstairs.
For the past three weeks or so I have been in a Lysol spraying frenzy, squirting puffs of bacterial eradicator every five minutes in my kitchen like a skunk on caffeine. Something has smelled rancid in my 1970s mustard yellow kitchen for far too long--like a mixture between rotting pot roast and moldy socks dipped in onion juice. I checked under the microwave, I poured lemon juice down the disposal, and I even tossed the scrap bowl where I chunk fruit and vegetable pieces while preparing dinner.
The odor remained.
Finally, my husband in an effort to alleviate his anger caused by the kids dumping all the board games and their teeny tiny pieces onto the floor upstairs for the five-millionth time, took a washcloth and proceeded to scrub the kitchen floor on his hands and knees--and that's when we discovered the source of the rank emanation:
Those little twerps have been dumping their dinners behind the fridge.
Dried, yet oily, decaying pasta. Moldy, barbecued pork ribs. Mystery slime. Hardened, putrescent Walmart deli pizza.
I felt so ill after cleaning that mess that I couldn't make it to church. Then I asked myself the eternal question of why. Why?
Sorry if I just ruined your appetite.
What I'm Talkin' About: Just Keepin' It Real