Smelliness is inevitable

Well, I haven't written in a few days because I've been busy securing my future. That, and it's been hot. Very hot. Unbelievably hot. So hot that we've been running our swamp cooler non-stop. I think I smelled smoke coming from it earlier. It was either coming from the cooler's motor or the fireworks being lit at our neighbor's house. My sense of fatalism insists that it's the cooler.

I have also been avoiding the computer because of the smell. There's a smell in our basement. Apparently, I own a smelly basement. I'm not sure where the smell is coming from. It could be damp from our week of undesert-like humidity. It could be teen spirit. It could be the fact that the basement is the coolest place in the house, therefore it is the place where our two large dogs lie and pant. I haven't decided. All I know is that no amount of Glade Plug-Ins will defeat the smell.

So today we decided to escape the smell (and the heat) and pack up the cooler and the dogs (I know, kinda defeats the purpose, but what are ya gonna do?) and some friends and drive up into the Uintahs* for a day of relaxation. We should have gone alone. But our friend, Jennifer, needed a day-trip. She just bought a house, she's drowning in boxes. And her mother is here from LA to lend a hand. Unfortunately Jennifer's mother's method of helping is to carefully point out all the stuff that needs to be done. By Jennifer. Immediately. She is also very handy at doing completely unnecessary things, like scraping paint flecks off windows, while the things Jennifer actually needs help with lie scattered across the floor. She is also (and this I can sympathize with) obsessing over Jennifer's smelly basesment. Of course, Jennifer's basement is really a crawlspace that no one should spare more than 2 seconds to go "Yup, it's a crawlspace -- why don't we go back upstairs" on. I mean, really, the only people who would spend any length of time down there are most likely hiding bodies. And do we really want to make it more comfortable for them?

So anyway, we decided to drag Jennifer with us to the Uintahs. And her mother came along. We would have done Jennifer more good if we had just dragged her mother to the Uintahs. As it was, I don't think Jennifer was able to relax one bit. And I certainly wasn't able to relax with all the mother-daughter bonding flying thick and fast between them. Then Jennifer's mother (who shall remain nameless, to protect the innocent) began to try and rub Kristin's 9-months-pregnant belly. Now everyone who knows Kristin knows how well she handles invasions of her personal space. God wept. Literally, the heavens opened and big tears began falling. We (after only 1.5 hours of mountain air) packed up our playing cards and picnic with alacrity, bundled our now wet (as well as smelly -- in fact, now more smelly) dogs into the car and took off for the city. Luckily they had ridden in their own car behind us. We felt for Jennifer, we really did, but it was every woman for herself. I hope they made it back to the city -- we didn't wait to find out.

So, we tried to escape a smelly house and ended up spending time in a smelly car. Since the basement now smells much better compared to the car, I thought I'd come down and post. And on that note, here's a little poem I wrote not too long ago that I think is a perfect way to end this little narrative.


Open the windows. Empty the trash.
Wash dishes. Raid the fridge, wipe it down,
throw out the beef, the milk, the mushrooms, the fish,
the apples, the quiche, everything smells of rot, of brown
spiders and grey-white flesh. So you corner the dogs, hose them down
put them out to dry. Scrub every surface. Use ammonia.
Use bleach. Use sand. The smell’s still here, it’s grown.
Grind eggshells in the disposal. You have no idea
what to do next. Something is still harboring bacteria.
Do you think to burn your mattresses again, dance around the fire,
let the smoke fill your nostrils then shower
and disinfect yourself? Don’t be a
fool. It’ll do no good. It never does me any good.
Something in my mouth, my throat, is poisoned and dead.

Ok, I know, It's a bit dark. But don't worry, I'm taking medication for that, and I expect to be cured of all darkness in the quite-near-future.

*For those of you who just happen to be reading this and who also just happen not to know me already or be familiar with Utah at all, the Uintahs are a Mountain range approximately an hour outside of Salt Lake that run along the border of Utah and Wyoming. They contain the tallest mountain peaks in Utah as well as some very pristine (and cold as hell! Fucking liquid ice, I'm telling you!) lakes. The Mirror Lake Highway is a national scenic byway between the Wasatch Front and Evanston and as such is one of the prettiest routes to some of the nastiest porn within an afternoon's drive of the heart of Mormondom. For a path to hell, I give it two thumbs up!

Posted by Trista @ 10:34 PM

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Man, that poem reminds me of a terrible nightmare I had once, in which I was eating some dead person's arm -- and woke up with the most horrible taste in my mouth. It's vivid, that's for sure!

And congratulations, by the way, on the new job. :) I hope it turns out to be wonderful.

Posted by Blogger Anne @ 6:19 PM #

Was the arm prepared in any way -- sauteed, fried, poached? Eeuw! what am I saying?!!? Maybe Kristin's food cravings are rubbing off on me... maybe I just need more protein in my vegetarian diet.

Posted by Blogger Trista @ 10:20 PM #
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