I was driving home from work today, and was almost to our house when I saw a dead skunk in the middle of the road. "Ooh! Maybe that's our skunk!" I exclaimed. (I often utter things aloud while driving, even though there's no one in the car to hear me. Like, "Oh no, I missed the turn!" and "Dumbass left his blinker on," and "GET OUT OF THE LEFT LANE, YOU SLOWASS BITCH.")

Now, I don't usually rejoice at the sight of roadkill. I am more likely to grimace or shudder or even, depending on the species, have a moment of mourning before shifting gears and moving on with my life. But this time I was happily hopeful. Hopeful that just maybe that was our skunk.

See, a couple weeks ago there was a smell. One that filled our house and the surrounding air. One that settled in and stayed awhile. It seemed particularly bad in the basement, but then again human noses are pretty much incapable of locating the source of a smell, so we weren't sure. In fact, we weren't even sure what it was. I proclaimed it skunky, but Rob took a few whiffs and decided the smell was "electrical."

For the record, that's probably not the best thing to tell me right before going to bed. Because I will lie awake worrying. Worrying about the house burning down. Worrying about whether or not the fire alarms will work. Worrying about the fact that we sleep nude and will there be time to get dressed? Worrying about how in the hell I'll be able to find all the cats in our smoke-filled house and get them out to safety. Worrying about what I'll do with them once we're all outside. (How can 2 people successfully hold 3 terrified housecats while also running to the neighbor to call 911 and then talking to firefighters and being examined by paramedics?) Worrying about losing everything we have. Worrying about whether the electrical smell itself is enough to kill us in our sleep. Just, in general, worrying. While Rob is, of course, soundly asleep. Fucker.

Eventually, I fell asleep, only to be awakened by the smell around 2 am. No really, it was that bad. Rob was awake too. And suddenly he broke the smelly silence, saying, "I might know what it is." There's this pipe in the basement that's connected to the old (now defunct) septic tank and, when we first moved in, it was releasing noxious fumes. It was apparently never capped off. We solved this by covering it with aluminum foil and plastic wrap and maybe even a shower cap or two. But Rob wondered, as we were lying in bed breathing a smell that was difficult to identify more specifically than BAD, if maybe the pipe was once again somehow the culprit.

"I bet that's it!" I said gleefully. And so we got out of bed and pulled on some pajamas and headed down to the basement to investigate.

"You smell it. You're the smeller," he said.

I got down on my hands and knees, eased my nose toward the pipe, and took a small preliminary sniff in order to prepare myself for the rancidity. But, nothing. So I inhaled deeper. Still nothing.

"Fuck. It's not the pipe."

We went back upstairs, dejected. I opened the outside door and sniffed. "Is it maybe worse out here?" Rob followed me onto the deck and we both sniffed. We sniffed here and there and everywhere, all over the deck. In the middle of the night. In our pajamas. And we concluded nothing. Except that it was fucking cold outside.

The next day we decided that the smell was not electrical, but surely that of a skunk. A week passed, and the smell did not subside. So we decided that perhaps the smell was that of a skunk living under our deck. At this point the stench had invaded our lives. Every room in the house smelled like skunk. The interior of my car smelled like skunk. One day I was sitting at my desk at work and I smelled skunk. I thought maybe the smell had finally taken permanent residence in my nostrils, but then I realized that the scent was coming from my coat. Basically, we reeked. It was the Week of Reek.

Just in this last week has the smell faded a bit. Every now and then we still get a godawful whiff of skunk funk, but my eyes no longer immediately water upon wakening, so that's good. We had almost convinced ourselves that maybe a skunk had sprayed near our house but not actually moved in, but then it snowed last week and we saw skunky pawprints that pranced around defiantly before heading right under the deck. Dammit.

My brother suggested we try to trap the skunk, to which I said, "Yeah? And THEN WHAT?!" Well, apparently then my brother would come over with his shotgun and shoot it (preferably downwind of our house). I suppose it's times like these that having a redneck family really comes in handy. But, I have so far been an advocate for the skunk's right to live. Although, ideally, he should exercise that right somewhere other than under our deck.

Of course, if the dumbfuck skunk got himself killed in traffic, that wouldn't be on my conscience. And so I'm hoping the skunk I saw flattened on the highway turns out to be our skunk. Or, if not, then when Grady comes out of hibernation this spring, he better kick some smelly skunk ass.

• The sole of the foot is without a doubt the most used body part of all one's body parts. Trust me on this.




• When people see a person limping, they become very excited. They conceal this excitement with concern ("Oh my, you poor thing! What happened?!") but in truth they are just eager for a good story - one of danger, misfortune, and pain. They are disappointed, not relieved, to hear that you only had a plantar wart removed. That is, apparently, so ho-hum. Adding that it was cut out of the bottom of your foot adds a slight bit of intrigue, but it's still not enough to satiate their need for a dramatic tale of suffering. A better response would be that you were fleeing a burning building and tripped on a snake stretched out across the sidewalk, falling into the street just as an 18-wheeler was barreling down the road. You rolled as fast as you could out of the way, but you didn't tuck your left leg under you quickly enough and so your foot was subsequently shattered by not one but nine wheels. For a particularly unimpressed listener, you might add that as you were on the ground writhing in pain, the snake slithered over and bit you on the ankle. Although, in my opinion, that would be taking it a step too far.




• Speaking of storytelling, I'm not really sure why I felt compelled to be honest to all of my co-workers about my foot problem. As common as it may be, no one wants to be thought of as warty. I should have just said I sprained my ankle as explanation for my gimping around. (Is 'gimping' a politically correct thing to say? I like the sound of it, but I have this suspicion that it's derogatory against some group....are there gimps?)




• Stunningly, there are certain situations (although rare!) in which fabulous shoes are not the most appealing option.




• The silver lining: It's nice to be able to say, "Hey, would you bring me the....?" without sounding lazy. Similarly, it's nice to ride the elevator without feeling guilty about not taking the stairs.

Yesterday I had a minor surgery-ish procedure on my left foot (unrelated to last week's outpatient test). My mom took me since I wouldn't be able to drive my stick-shift afterwards. She also insisted on coming back into the room with me rather than sit in the waiting room, not for the purpose of being with me but because she wanted to watch the procedure. Yeah, she's one of those - her favorite cable channel is the one that shows actual surgeries. I am not one of those. In fact, afterwards I was whining about having to change the dressing because that sort of thing gives me the heebie-jeebies. Mom offered to do it for me, every day, and while I know she sincerely wants to help, I also suspect that getting to see the gore on a daily basis would bring her unparalleled pleasure. This is just like when I offer to peel Rob's sunburned back. He thinks I'm being nice until he hears my first delighted moan as I peel off a really long strip and then he realizes that, in fact, he married a woman who is not at all altruistic and, even worse, receives near-sexual satisfaction from the removal of dead skin cells.

The doctor gave me (and by "gave me" I mean charged me $12 for) one of those surgery shoes and, since my foot was still numb, I was able to clomp around the house with relative ease last evening. Simon cowered whenever I came nearby, as if my heavy foot completely prevented him from recognizing me. Bridget, being several levels of intelligence higher than Simon, was not scared but sympathetic. All evening she watched me with an expression that clearly communicated pity. However, this made me feel even more pathetic and clumsy than Simon's skittishness. Because when a captive tabby eunuch with a girl's name feels sorry for you? Well, really, what reason is there to go on?

But the most humbling moment was this morning, when the numbness had worn off and the pain killer hadn't yet kicked in. I had sat up in bed and gingerly placed my foot on the floor only to discover that putting any pressure on my foot whatsoever really fucking HURT. I couldn't stand on it. I couldn't even sorta stand on it.

Rob helped me hobble to the bathroom, leaving me there while he went to pour his coffee. A few moments later, I found myself sitting on the toilet utterly unable to stand up. Any weight I put on my foot caused extreme pain. "Um, Rob?" I yelled. "I'm, uh, sorta stuck."

I've always looked forward to the thought of being with Rob when we're in our 80s, but I thought it would be decades until I'd need him to lift me off the toilet.

Thank you all for your concerned comments and emails. There's no need to worry. If and when you need to worry, I will let you know. I have a doctor who likes to rule out the bad things first, which I appreciate, and that sometimes means a trip to the outpatient center for tests. If it turns out that I'm dealing with a serious motherfucker, I will enlist your support. For now, let's all focus on the goodness that is John Stamos. Hallowed be his name.

Did y'all see him present an award at the Golden Globes? I wasn't planning to watch, but I ended up sorting through our basket of magazines that evening and so turned it on while I completed the task. I don't really give a shit about this sort of event, although there are a few folks with whom I might be a wee bit obsessed. Like Angelina Jolie, who intrigues me (and is really fucking hot). And Jennifer Garner, who would totally be best friends with HFD and me if she only knew us. And Zach Braff, whom I just plain adore. (As does Rob in what is, if you ask me, a bit of a man-crush-erly way.)

Anyway, so there I was sorting magazines and only paying half attention when HOLY SHIT THERE'S JOHN STAMOS! ON THE STAGE! "Holy shit, there's John Stamos!" I exclaimed. "On the stage!"

America Ferrera won the award and was sobbing all over herself and everyone thought it was because she had just won her first Best Actress Golden Globe, but of course it was because she was going to get to hug John Stamos. I mean, hello! That's once in a lifetime! Fuck the Golden Globe. Can you think of anything more gratifying than pressing your body against Stud Stamos? No, of course you can't.

Click to bask in his boundless beauty.

(Link courtesy of jessica_deva. Thank you!)

Today I went to the hospital outpatient center to have a test done. (Not going into details on that right now, although I sincerely appreciate your concern.) When you first walk in, there's a reception desk and then behind that are three cubicles where you register and they copy your insurance card and all that. There was no one at the reception desk, so I stood there for a minute waiting. Two of the three cubicle clerks were registering patients, and the third one was on her computer. After a moment, she looked up at me and said, "Ma'am, you can just sign in there and then have a seat." As I jotted down my name, I saw that everyone ahead of me had been crossed off, which meant I was next. I then proceeded to the waiting area, where I was the only person. There was an older couple sitting on a bench in the hall waiting on someone who was registering, but they were the only other people.

So, I sat there for a few minutes. No other patients came into the waiting area. Then the same woman who had spoken to me walked over, stood about two feet from me, and loudly announced, "Kelly [Lastname]!" Um, that's me. You know, the only one here? The one you saw sign that sheet not five minutes ago?

I stood up, and as I walked toward her she shout-announced, "Booth TWO!" She wasn't rude, just very authoritative and official. And, you know, loud. It made me giggle, it was so unnecessary.

And speaking of unnecessary, she put a hospital bracelet on me. In the outpatient center! I don't get it. I mean, is it common for people to forget who they are and why they're there during the short elevator ride to radiology? And if so, wouldn't the papers she gave me to carry that stated who I was and why I was there provide some sort of clue? Perhaps years ago some elderly lady got lost for days wandering the wilderness of hallways, finally seeking shelter under a gurney and building a fire with her medical papers for warmth. And when they finally found her, she was so disoriented and traumatized that she couldn't even remember her own name, and so now they strap a bracelet onto everyone who enters the building. Makes sense I guess.

Also (and this isn't related in any way except we're talking about hospitals) the Scrubs musical tonight was fucking awesome.

Over the weekend I saw somewhere a recipe for a spinach frittata with ricotta cheese, and this evening I cracked myself up doing a Google search for it. "Rob! Hee!! I just searched for frittata with ricotta! Didn't even see that rhyme coming! Ricotta frittata...hoo boy!" Seriously, you have no idea how much that delighted me.

Other phrases to describe my life right now:

tidiness and tinnitus
skunk funk

Stories to come. Or, hell, just make up your own.