The mister was out of town this weekend, hunting up north. Well, he said he was hunting, but the complete lack of dead animals indicates that he was less than successful. I think he, his brother-in-law, and their buddy were really just enjoying a weekend where they could smoke stinky cigars and no one would make them shower before they could get into bed.
(What? Those cigars smell AWFUL and I’m not sleeping next to someone that reeks like that.)
When he left town, he hinted that I should consider organizing our basement while he was gone. I hinted that he could kiss my ass.
Left to my own devices, I spent Friday evening with half a bottle of red, a very trashy book, and the radio cranked.
Saturday I spent motorcycling since it was a glorious day, and with my family since it was my older brother’s 29th birthday. I got home Saturday evening and sniffed.
Hmm, something in the kitchen is a bit…off.
I took out the trash, washed the dog’s bowls, and ran the dishwasher. I figured it must have been one of those three culprits, so I went to bed.
The next morning I got up and opened my bedroom door, which is at the opposite end of the house from the kitchen, and was hit in the face with a smell so repulsive and overwhelming I had to sit in the yard, in the falling snow, in my pajamas, and gasp for breath while I tried to figure out where the smell was coming from.
I finally figured it out a little later. One of the pumpkins the mister and I got for Halloween had gone to rot. It still looked fine, big and orange and solid. But its interior had liquefied into putrid, nauseating goo.
The reason I know this is because when I picked up said offending pumpkin to throw it outside, the goo proceeded to gush out the bottom of the pumpkin and land, appallingly, on my bare feet, my new pergo floor, the rug by the door, and my dog, releasing a new and even more disgusting wave of smells.
Once the dry heaving and gagging was over, I spent a couple hours washing the floor, washing the dog, and washing the rug.
When the mister came home from “hunting” and asked why I hadn’t organized our basement, I was tempted to go outside, fish the offending pumpkin from the trash can, and throw it at him. But I’d just gotten the smell out of my hair.