Friday, January 6, 2012

What's That Smell--Seriously?!

    After something happened yesterday, I COULD NOT wait to write this story.  But before I do, I have some exciting news . . .

    Another review for "The Golden Sky" went up at:  

    Don't forget, today is January 6th (the Epiphany), the last day my eBook will be listed as 99 cents HERE on Smashwords.
     (For kindle it's 2.99 HERE on Amazon.
    Also, I wrote a guest post for my amazing friend, Melynda at:  

Crazy world


    Now, onto the post of the day.
    I woke up very early and wrote about clams yesterday--yuck.  After completely downing my coffee, I stood and walked right into someone!  
    I wanted to scream.  It was super early, dark and cold.  The only person who likes the morning as much as I do is the Scribe.  But this wasn't the Scribe; this person had long curly hair and a lasting peace when she talked.  I knew after a moment, it was the Hippie--my night owl.
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    I love that girl.  If you can picture Mother Teresa as a kid, she'd be like the Hippie.  She's sweet and kind. She's a lot like Dee (from coming home to myself) because she's so completely good.  The Hippie doesn't rig traps or tell scary stories like the Scribe does.  No, the Hippie always wants to be sweet and kind.  That's why what happened next surprised me so much.
    We were alone in the kitchen.  I flipped on the light, and as I did so, an awful smell overtook me.
    "Hippie," I said, "Did you just . . . fart?"  (I know it's terrible, I said the "F" word around baby Teresa, but it had to be done.)
    "No."  She shook her head, sniffing.  "I'm embarrassed you'd even ask me that."
    Now, the great thing about a fart and TWO PEOPLE is that you always know who did it.  The power of deduction can be such an amazing thing.  
    "Hippie.  We're alone.  I certainly did not fart. So, that means YOU did."  I wanted to cackle, laugh into the foul air because I felt like Sherlock Holmes!
    "No, I didn't.  I wouldn't.  If I need to . . . do that . . . I go into the bathroom and shut the door."
    I sniffed again, and it shocked me how a gallon of coffee couldn't wake me up quite like the smell of sulfur in the morning. 
    "Maybe something went bad in the fridge," she said and had me believing her SO MUCH, I opened the fridge and rummaged through.
    "Nothing in here," I said as the smell dissipated.  I made her some hot cocoa after that, then while we sat talking, the smell came back like an evil boomerang!
    "Hippie . . . I won't tolerate lying.  Did. You. Fart?"
    "I hate that word," she said.  "It sounds so terrible."
    "Sometimes people have to use terrible words, for terrible smells.  Now, answer the question.  Did you almost kill me with that smell?"
    "I didn't.  I think you're the one!"
    "The great thing about farting," I said.  "Is that you know when you're guilty."
    "So, maybe we're smelling your feet."
    I just looked at her.  
    "The other great thing about it."  She paused.  "Is that you can't smell your own.  THAT'S how I know you're guilty. I can definitely smell this one.  So . . . IT'S YOURS, Mom."
    We were like two gunslingers, ready to fight to the death.
    "It wasn't me," my voice quivered with anger.
    "Oh.  Yes. IT.  WAS!  Don't lie, Mother.  That's being a bad example.  Mothers aren't supposed to fart AND lie!"
    "A bad example?  But it wasn't me.  I was a perfect example today."
    "Mom, something's been bothering me."  She looked up, staring right into my eyes.
    "Okay," I said, because something bothered me, too.
    "I just breathed something that died, then escaped from your butt," she said, suddenly looking so ill.
    "But that wasn't me," I said.
    "And it couldn't have been me because I can still smell it. Plus, I make pooders, not farts.  They're better 'cause I'm a kid AND I'm a girl."

    So, she still never confessed and now she freaks out when anyone makes . . . "a smell."  She'll cover her mouth and run into the nearest room.  You'd think it was poisonous gas--when probably it's just her own potent fumes!  I'm never making bean soup again.

    Have you ever experienced something like this?  Why is it that kids put us through these strange moments?

    Plus, maybe my kid was like Mother Teresa, but yesterday all of that changed.  After all, I don't think saints fart, not really.