I thought I might as well write this while I have supper because I sure as heck can't look at the TV or I'll barf. Dave's watching a documentary called How Jaws Changed the World. Interspersed amongst clips of Jaws are lengthy shots of shark innards, bloody flotsam and other great globs of greasy floating gopher guts.
A few minutes ago he was watching Salvage Hunters, one of a plethora of shows featuring people rifling through other people's junk. I cannot watch these shows when I'm eating. Hoarders, Storage Wars, American Pickers, Canadian Pickers, Nose Pickers – basically anything that involves moldy, mildewy basements and all the absolute crap people put there.
See, I know all about moldy basements. My ex-husband's basement has a river running through it. Dave's old house had an abandoned well in it and, I'm pretty sure, body pieces of nosy neighbours. Both these places were like mildew factories. Putting anything in those sour holes in the ground ruined them. My ex once put our Christmas decorations down there. Omigawd, a year later everything had grown a coat of yellow fuzz and smelled so bad that I was retching, not rocking, 'round the Christmas tree. When we divorced he put our family photos down there and now all the kids' pictures smell like somebody's underwear. He put our wedding album down there, too, but our marriage already smelled like used grape smugglers so no harm done. By the way, tomorrow's our anniversary. Happy Bludgeoned Anniversary, honey! Oh, and just because we're not married anymore doesn't mean you shouldn't buy me presents. Out of your own insufferable guilt. Big presents. Valuable presents – like refrigerators that make ice, cars with heated seats and front loading washing machines. It's never too late to make up for that bimbo you were banging!
Thankfully the house I live in now has no basement. Not so handy during hurricanes, but at least the Christmas ornaments smell April fresh as they're whizzing out that role in the roof.
Oh gawd, I just accidentally glanced at the TV. Lookie, lookie – a ginormous Great White Shark hanging from a nightmare-sized fish hook, bleeding like a stuck pig. Or a stuck shark. Or the episode from Breaking Bad where Gus cuts that guy's throat with a box-cutter.
*puts down pork chop and shudders*
The only thing worse than watching gibbering grossness whilst eating is smelling gibbering grossness. The best story I have in that regard involves a former colleague – let's call him Emeril – in a former workplace.
Emeril fancied himself a foodie and even though his lunch usually consisted of no-name chicken weenies, he occasionally brought leftovers from previous night's dinner fare. One day he unpeeled the lid on a microwaveable food tomb and revealed some ghastly ghoulash of red snapper and sauerkraut.
"My wife says you guys must all be jealous of my gourmet lunches." He said this with a perfectly self-satisfied smile of smugness as he stuck that stinky shite in the microwave.
Well.
The moment the nukerwaves hit that crap, a smell of utter putridness wafted into the lunchroom in an omigawd strength that can only be compared to the dead moose that was rotting at the side of Highway 118 this summer. Somebody threw a couple of shovelfuls of dirt over it – the moose, not Emeril's lunch – it was about as effective as having a herd of cats defecate on a tablespoon of kitty litter.
The stenchius horribilus filled the entire office building. Everyone was retching while Emeril wolfed down his cabbaged-snapper. It was all fun and games until the Boss returned to work after his own lunch.
I will never forget his wise words, booming through the office: "What in the FECK is that SMELL?"
He marched into his office and fired a round of pointed dictation to one of his minions. Moments later a memo was posted on the Health & Safety board, banning the consumption of all smelly comestibles on company property.
Being the shit-disturber I am, the next day I brought egg salad sandwiches and accused Emeril of farting.
