Ding Dong! WHAT'S THAT SMELL?!
So,
I don't know whose genius-caliber idea it was to put the kitchen heat vent right underneath the most convenient cutting surface in the house, but it has become a bit of an issue. You see, I'm not naming names, here, but I have a cat who more frequently than you would believe manages to pull food (and by food I mean anything of an animal, vegetable, or minerable nature) down onto the floor and push it onto the grate. If I turn my back to get a knife, he's there when I turn back. He is that devoted a thief. Another cat regularly drags the trash onto its side and scatters it over the kitchen floor, inevitably knocking some on top of the grate. This happens about once a week.
I usually just clean it up, whack the cats, and there's no harm done, but with the heat on and all, there are days (today) when I wake up to the smell of roasting garbage. I consider this an indignity, but I live with it because it is my fault for not taking the trash out the night before (the bin can only be tipped when full). But for the past several days, there has been a growing stench in the kitchen that led me to fear that the refrigerator had stopped working.
Due investigation revealed that it's coming from the heating vent, where the cat who shall not be named doubtless dropped a piece of chicken fat or something that slid between the bars of the grate and is even now decomposing. Every time the heater comes on, the kitchen is filled with the charnel reek of putrefying flesh, and it frankly pisses me off. I don't know about you, but the subtle bouquet of rotten meat is not exactly what I want my kitchen to smell like.
I was in the midst of trying to excavate the vent today, wearing nothing more than a bra and my pants (What? I'm a guy that way!), when the doorbell rings. It's the UPS guy, bringing an end to the terrible saga of the wayward package which began on Monday and has continued until today, much to Generalissima kittyblue's dismay. Normally the UPS guy rings the bell and sprints off, but this time, he is standing there expectantly. I begin to fear that if I don't open the door and take the package, he will simply vanish with it, and I'll never see it again, nor know what it contains.
I know what I have to do. There is no laundry within reach, except for a lacy black overshirt that is not meant to be worn alone. I tie it on nevertheless, figuring that an advanced nudist like me can manage the tricky half-open-door reacharound swipe that reveals only one arm. I don't gotta show him nothin'.
So I crack the door, and the fucking guy wants to talk before he gives me the package. I'm peering around the doorjamb like a suspicious native, grunting and nodding every few seconds, while he delivers the package's history and apologizes for the confusion. He offers it to me. My arm shoots out the door, and between the ornamental bars of the outer door, and seizes the package. It is too big to fit through the bars. Instead of leaving me there to wrestle with it, the helpful guy takes it back, opens the outer door, and hands it to me, forcing me to throw the inner door wide and take it directly from him.
He stands there, momentarily stunned by the cleavage, whereupon I realize that, under the blouse, my bra strap has slipped down.
The heater, sensing the open door, comes on, filling the house with the stench of rotting zombie jocks.
I thank him politely and close the door, leaving him on the porch to wonder about the secret of the slightly disheveled, bosomy, half-dressed necrophiliac who just inadvertently flashed him half her left tit.
All I can think afterwards is "Thank goodness I caved to the momentary and freakish urge to don pants!"
And the package, for those of you wondering, contained my official last Christmas present, A Writer's Guide to Places, which is actually a really cool book even though it sounds about as interesting as dry toast. It also contained assorted other goodies, including Pocky (Eeeee!), chopsticks (YAY! A reason to drag Sargon to my favorite Chinese place!), incense (ZOMG!), mulling spices (YUMMY!) and a little lucky cat sitting on a little lucky leaf (Awwww!). The crowning glory is the Mocus mirror, which I will attempt to photograph next to the Mocus herself.
Kitteh, I will send you a silly package of silly stuff as soon as fundage allows! Thank you so much!
Anyway. That's my adventure. The smell, by the way, is almost gone. I still have not put on a shirt, nor do I believe that I shall. I suspect I shall remain shirtless, because I'm pretending to be Hugh Jackman today.
Hugh Jackman with a jingly kitty-cat mirror!
Now that I have conclusively demonstrated my insanity yet again, I leave you to scrounge some normalcy from the rest of your f-list. Ta!
I don't know whose genius-caliber idea it was to put the kitchen heat vent right underneath the most convenient cutting surface in the house, but it has become a bit of an issue. You see, I'm not naming names, here, but I have a cat who more frequently than you would believe manages to pull food (and by food I mean anything of an animal, vegetable, or minerable nature) down onto the floor and push it onto the grate. If I turn my back to get a knife, he's there when I turn back. He is that devoted a thief. Another cat regularly drags the trash onto its side and scatters it over the kitchen floor, inevitably knocking some on top of the grate. This happens about once a week.
I usually just clean it up, whack the cats, and there's no harm done, but with the heat on and all, there are days (today) when I wake up to the smell of roasting garbage. I consider this an indignity, but I live with it because it is my fault for not taking the trash out the night before (the bin can only be tipped when full). But for the past several days, there has been a growing stench in the kitchen that led me to fear that the refrigerator had stopped working.
Due investigation revealed that it's coming from the heating vent, where the cat who shall not be named doubtless dropped a piece of chicken fat or something that slid between the bars of the grate and is even now decomposing. Every time the heater comes on, the kitchen is filled with the charnel reek of putrefying flesh, and it frankly pisses me off. I don't know about you, but the subtle bouquet of rotten meat is not exactly what I want my kitchen to smell like.
I was in the midst of trying to excavate the vent today, wearing nothing more than a bra and my pants (What? I'm a guy that way!), when the doorbell rings. It's the UPS guy, bringing an end to the terrible saga of the wayward package which began on Monday and has continued until today, much to Generalissima kittyblue's dismay. Normally the UPS guy rings the bell and sprints off, but this time, he is standing there expectantly. I begin to fear that if I don't open the door and take the package, he will simply vanish with it, and I'll never see it again, nor know what it contains.
I know what I have to do. There is no laundry within reach, except for a lacy black overshirt that is not meant to be worn alone. I tie it on nevertheless, figuring that an advanced nudist like me can manage the tricky half-open-door reacharound swipe that reveals only one arm. I don't gotta show him nothin'.
So I crack the door, and the fucking guy wants to talk before he gives me the package. I'm peering around the doorjamb like a suspicious native, grunting and nodding every few seconds, while he delivers the package's history and apologizes for the confusion. He offers it to me. My arm shoots out the door, and between the ornamental bars of the outer door, and seizes the package. It is too big to fit through the bars. Instead of leaving me there to wrestle with it, the helpful guy takes it back, opens the outer door, and hands it to me, forcing me to throw the inner door wide and take it directly from him.
He stands there, momentarily stunned by the cleavage, whereupon I realize that, under the blouse, my bra strap has slipped down.
The heater, sensing the open door, comes on, filling the house with the stench of rotting zombie jocks.
I thank him politely and close the door, leaving him on the porch to wonder about the secret of the slightly disheveled, bosomy, half-dressed necrophiliac who just inadvertently flashed him half her left tit.
All I can think afterwards is "Thank goodness I caved to the momentary and freakish urge to don pants!"
And the package, for those of you wondering, contained my official last Christmas present, A Writer's Guide to Places, which is actually a really cool book even though it sounds about as interesting as dry toast. It also contained assorted other goodies, including Pocky (Eeeee!), chopsticks (YAY! A reason to drag Sargon to my favorite Chinese place!), incense (ZOMG!), mulling spices (YUMMY!) and a little lucky cat sitting on a little lucky leaf (Awwww!). The crowning glory is the Mocus mirror, which I will attempt to photograph next to the Mocus herself.
Kitteh, I will send you a silly package of silly stuff as soon as fundage allows! Thank you so much!
Anyway. That's my adventure. The smell, by the way, is almost gone. I still have not put on a shirt, nor do I believe that I shall. I suspect I shall remain shirtless, because I'm pretending to be Hugh Jackman today.
Hugh Jackman with a jingly kitty-cat mirror!
Now that I have conclusively demonstrated my insanity yet again, I leave you to scrounge some normalcy from the rest of your f-list. Ta!