Yesterday, I walked out into my garage and was overcome by the stench of dead squirrel. Evidently, double-bagging the dead varmint, knotting those bags three times and then placing the whole mess in my Rubbermaid trashcan with the tight-fitting lid? Not enough to keep the funk of decomposition contained.
I was in a hurry, so I figured I would drag the trashcan outside when I got home. And as I drove off, I realized that my poor Honda smelled like ass.
I was amazed that such a little squirrel could pack such an odoriferous punch. And I always keep my windows rolled up in the garage!
So, I drove off to a volunteer meeting … a meeting with the organization that just happened to sponsor the event where Ex-Ex shaved his head for charity. One of the items on our agenda was an event recap … which actually included our 12-year-old staff liaison falling all over herself over Ex-Ex. Now, Ex-Ex wasn’t in attendance and doesn’t serve on my committee, but the whole thing just made me kinda want to barf.
And then, I realized what a wonderful opportunity I faced.
I should take the stinky dead squirrel to Ex-Ex’s house and just leave it somewhere where it would be difficult to find but have a big olfactory impact.
No one would get hurt. But it would a) get the stinkiness away from my house; and b) provide immense satisfaction to me.
But then I realized that doing such a thing would be, you know, like, immature. And then some people could argue that I have some sort of problem or something.
While I was mulling this over, I had to go to my every-three-months appointment with my psychiatrist. You know, the appointment where I pretend to be normal, beg for a Zoloft refill, and check out the flaky receptionist for your reading pleasure.
Except! Except the blonde, boobtastic receptionist with the dirty jeans and the nose ring was gone! And in her place was a grown woman, a woman dressed in a demure black skirt and silk blouse. A woman who spoke with an English accent.
I was disappointed. Until English Accent Receptionist informed me that according to her notes, I had rescheduled my appointment. I pointed out that I had spoken to her personally the day before when she called to confirm my appointment. All was well, but it made me realize that looks aside, you have to be sort of not all there to be a part-time receptionist for a doctor who works primarily with crazy people.
Typically, I look at the people in the waiting room and wonder what their problems are. And I try my best to look normal. Except yesterday? Yesterday, I realized that considering dumping a dead squirrel carcass at the home of my ex-ex-boyfriend – a man who is merely an annoyance – probably wasn’t an argument for my own mental health. Sure, you can be all, “Oh, I just have issues with depression.” But once you’re transporting dead animals for your own emotional gain? Well, that enters into a whole new realm of psychiatric health or lack thereof.
I got the Zoloft refill. I got home and moved the trashcan outside, next to the garage, where it resided until this evening. Thankfully, tomorrow is trash day, so tonight I held my breath and moved the stinkiness down to the street. Oh sweet eight-pound, five-ounce baby Jesus. I feel the need to Febreeze my entire yard.
My yard smells like death. But my conscious? It is clear.