When I came out of my front door this morning, I saw my garbage can on its side, garbage scattered across my lawn and sidewalk. Well, I said something very unsaint-like, loudly. A skunk came scurrying out of the garbage can and ran. I immediately scrambled backward, into my porch, and said something else that I'm pretty sure will land me in the seventh or eighth circle of hell.
The stink was immediate. I stood in the porch, not sure if I'd been in the line of skunk fire. Then, I went back into the house and asked my wife to smell me. She couldn't smell anything. I had her smell my book bag. Nothing. I had her smell the case of Diet Mountain Dew I was lugging. Nothing.
Satisfied, I got in my car and drove to work. As I was driving, I kept smelling skunk. (Mind you, I'm the person who cannot smell skunk unless it's so strong it would bring a normal person to her knees.) When I got to my office, I called my sister and asked to if she would smell me. I drove to my sister's place of work.
She sniffed me. I didn't stink. I brought one of my bags to her. She took one whiff and backed away. Bingo.
To make a long story even longer, I had to jettison a leather binder in which I carry my daily planner. I had to throw out the actual bag, and I'm trying to salvage a couple books I'm unwilling to part with.
And, as I sit here typing this, I'm paranoid. I keep smelling something rotten in the state of Denmark.
Saint Marty is having a pretty shitty morning.
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| Not a great start to the week... |
