Well, Apparently the EPA isn’t Monitoring My Blog

Because no one has showed up to locate the smell in my kitchen yet and I have made no progress towards even starting to discover it.  I have, however, spent the day listening to the litany of things the Mexicans in the tattooed friend’s shop tell him to say to each other.  One will say, “Oh, you want to tell Rene to come to lunch with you?  Here, say this” and then he’ll teach the tattooed friend to say “I want to suck your dick” in Spanish.  And the tattooed friend will go over and dutifully repeat what he’s been taught, which will, of course, crack the second guy up and he’ll say, “Yeah, yeah, of course.  But you tell him…” and so on.

This is, apparently, great fun for them and the tattooed friend said that it took him longer than he’d like to admit to figure out that that’s what was going on.

I tell this only to balance out the stories from yesterday.

My parents get here tomorrow for the end of their vacation.  So, that should be fun.

Or something.

I’m working on a prototype of the meta-bag.  That’s my excuse for not cleaning out the fridge.

Can’t You Smell that Smell?

Something in my kitchen smells so bad that I long for someone, anyone, to come to the door and say “Ma’am?  We’ve been sent by the EPA and we are here to clean up your kitchen.  Please put this gas mask on and show us where the fridge is.”

And my shoulders would slump in relief and…

and…

and then I would run upstairs with a bag of squishy rotten grapes hidden under an armpit and I would deposit them around my bathroom and get the EPA to clean that up, too.