Smell-o-vision

Hello Everyone - that is, if anyone is still checking my blog! It has been over a year since I have written. Many reasons. None of them really all that great. But here I am again. In cyberspace with you. My site is in need of an overhaul. I know that. The other blogs associated with this site are hopelessly out-of-date. Don't bother clicking over there unless you're in the mood for retro fun.

I have had one of those "Why did this have to happen to me?" moments and wanted to share.

First of all, me and mine have been living through a complete remodeling of our first floor. And we are doing the work ourselves. So far we have demolished our kitchen and bathroom and put up new drywall. We have only one bathroom. Truth in disclosure compels me to write that someone else did do the drywall. However we are all so sick of living in an unfinished house we can hardly stand it.

About three weeks ago we saw light at the end of the tunnel and are now on the downside. New kitchen, new paint, new windows, new carpet. Which brings me to this afternoon. I have been a bit of a slug lately. I am tired of painting. The painting belongs to me exclusively. Why? Because I don't trust any of my men to do it as neatly as I do it. Not conceited - fact! So this afternoon I tell myself I must paint. Another day cannot go by without my painting something.

I get the supplies and settle in the bathroom. And I do mean settle - all more-than-120-pounds-of-me (Writer's license, don't you know!) I choose to paint the woodwork on the floor all around the toilet. It's the most difficult and I am going to tackle it. So down I go onto the floor. Sometimes I paint with my left hand because that's the hand that can reach whatever spot needs slathered with paint.

And all the time I am doing this I smell pee. Why can't the grown men in the house have better aim? I mean really! This is a brand new bathroom. Let's step up - literally and figuratively. I continue in my contorted fashion until my paintbrush finds what I will call a short curly hair. I wanted to puke. On I went careful to paint as neatly as I could. The linear feet of painting was less than 11 feet but it took me at least an hour.

I struggle up and go into the kitchen to check my dinner. It's all burned up, billowing smoke inaugurating my new kitchen. How freaking special! I have not been cooking very long in my new kitchen and never once have I remembered that I now possess a range hood with an exhaust fan. I think I'm going to make a sign. Maybe that will register in my brain. "You have fan, Moron. Use it!" So I turn on the fan and open the windows. And I look at the 12 burned up brats that really are a favorite of ours accompanied with sauerkraut that's been simmered in the pan drippings. No pan drippings here. Chunks of carbon.

I simply give up. There may be a Plan B but I'm not instigating it. Pizza Hut $10 carryout sounds good to me. Hubby can do that. I come in here to complain to my friend Julie via e-mail. Everyone should have a Julie friend. I don't know what I would do without mine. As I write to her I think of you, and want to share my ridiculous tale with you. I nearly forgot my password it has been so long since I've written. I finally remembered it and was good to go. The fingers are typing, the smoke is filtering out of my house. But from where is that strong smell of smoke emanating? Oh, it's me. My clothes and my freshly cut and washed hair all reek of smoke. But at least I don't smell like pee!

~ Maureen