Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Michelangelo probably ate brains for breakfast

Holy crap, guys. It's almost July! And I have so much stuff to do between now and the end of July that just thinking about it makes my anus clench in a perpetual cramp.

Either way you look at it, it's not pleasant.

On a somewhat brighter note, I've pretty much finished the Biology portion of my pre-requisites for the paramedic program this fall, so I'm halfway there. Sort of. Fact is, this chemistry is kicking my butt. I almost enjoyed biology, and even learned a few things. Chemistry? Not so much. I mean, who really cares what happens when you mix 4F + 3(CO)2? Not me. And what's worse is I'm pretty darn sure I don't need to know one iota of this in order to be a paramedic. I have now spent the better part of three days trying to figure out how to balance chemical equations, and I can now finally say that I UNDERSTAND!!! And now I also understand why I should have taken Grade 11 chemistry BEFORE Grade 12.

And then I found out that Michelangelo has been painting brains on ceilings in Italy, in an effort to speak the truth about God and the heavens, and now I really think I need to start painting instead of studying stupid chemistry so that I too can become famous for painting famous paintings on famous ceilings, and THEN, centuries later, becoming famous ALL OVER AGAIN for actually painting camouflaged brains within the paintings! How cool would that be, guys??? Sneaky Michelangelo.




But then again, I'd probably most definitely be put away forever and ever, because seriously? That is just really weird, man. What.The.Hell was wrong with Mikey? I mean, here is is, painting God on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, and he decides to put a brain into God's face and neck? WHO DOES THAT?!

It's kind of like a Renaissance Where's Waldo.



I should probably just go study.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Today is a good day because I'm having a really good hair day and that's all that really matters, isn't it?


I'm having a good hair day today, guys!

And I'm also tearing the same hair out of my head as I try and try and try again to get through page by page of this Grade 12 chemistry course that is whipping my butt sentence by difficult sentence. Help.

Meanwhile,




* Garbage. Sarah Jessica Parker, horse nostrils, and dead mice. Oh, and earthquakes. Story of my life.

That would be about it.

I'm too tired to even attempt to write anything witty or rude.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

SJP looks like a horse, and I have the nostrils to prove it

Okay, I give up.

Here I was, innocently and diligently (I might add) studying away, when suddenly my very keen nose sensed a not-so-wonderful smell. Not quite old garbage, not quite rotting flesh, more like a little of both. Thanks to my amazing sense of smell, I was the only one in the entire house who noticed this smell.

But "notice" isn't the word, folks. This smell, over the day, overwhelmed me. Imagine trying to study Grade 12 Chemistry while sitting in the middle of a fetid dumpsite. Yeah, that was me.

By nightfall, I couldn't stand it any longer, and I went on the hunt. My nose told me the smell wasn't coming from the garbage in the kitchen. I quickly narrowed down the area to the stove. Upon further investigation, I found this



in the drawer at the bottom of the stove. I came very close to throwing up. Then I told Mr. Handsome he had a job to do, and I went to bed.

Got up the next morning, happy the stench was removed, and sat down to get back to my books, when my nose sensed it once again. The Smell of Death. WTF? It smells like the crotch of an 82-year-old man who hasn't changed his underwear in probably a month, has a bowel control issue as well as a profuse sweating problem. Oh, and he probably doesn't bathe either. Now do you get the picture?

I can't find the source, guys, and it's driving me crazy. Not only the smell, but the thought that there is probably another mouse lying somewhere, dead. In.My.House.

But that's not all, folks! No! I also went out my back door yesterday to throw something into the recycling box, and there it was again! The Smell. And once again, I can't for the life of me find the source of it. I tried putting Mr. Handsome to work on it, but he said he needs me because he can't smell anything. Nice try, husband. You do have other senses besides smell, you know. How about using the eyes god gave you? And while you're at it, thank your lucky stars you don't have an Olympian sense of smell. It's obviously not all it's cracked up to be.

And now I spend my days sniffing, like those drug sniffing dogs at airports who go through people's luggage and dirty underwear, all in the name of their next fix. I swear my nostrils are getting bigger as I write this. My dad had big nostrils, probably the biggest I've ever encountered. They were akin to a horse's nostrils, only on a human's face. Just imagine Sarah Jessica Parker. He claimed it was because he ran a lot as a child. I'm now thinking that maybe I should start a nostril chart, regularly measuring and charting my nostril size, just in case. It would also come in handy as a form of distraction from the constant thoughts that we have 4,563 mice in our house, and they are dying, one by one, never to be found. It would also help to distract me from the fact that I am now the official household sniffing dog.

I knew it would come to this sooner or later.

Update: As I was writing this, an earthquake struck our fair city. Our house trembled and shook, and at first, I mistook it for the construction work that's going on not far from us. Then the noise of a very loud train/truck/group of raucous zombies began, and the house shook even more, and I then realized it wasn't construction work. Instead, I thought it might be the furnace about to explode. Em got up, looked at me with panic in her eyes, and said, "Let's get outta here!" But I was too busy giggling and watching the furniture jump around on the floor to get scared. Yes, we had an earthquake, 5.1 on the Richter scale, and we're all safe. I bet you our new neighbour is now really really glad they moved here!

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Tiny chihuahuas probably need at least a few pillows to see out the window

I've been working really hard these past few weeks, trying as hard as I might to get my Biology and Chemistry done. It's damn hard work, guys, going back to being a teenager when you're actually almost at retirement age, but feel more like you're about to hit the ground six feet under.

In other words, instead of this:





I am like this:




but feel like this:





Very confusing. I know.

I can only imagine what college will be like in the fall, when I walk into the classroom on the first day, and everyone in there (including the professor) could easily be my grandchild. I can hardly wait.

The prospect has definitely had me stressed out, to say the least. I am either going to be pitied, ignored, or laughed at. None of these choices are good.

I can see it now: I am being tested in CPR, and I run out of steam partway into the examination. I just can't do it. I don't have the energy, the stamina, the wherewithal to bring the fake person back to life. But, instead of failing me, putting a big red X beside my name, my classmates band together and force the teacher to pass me because I'm an old geezer and am actually now the subject of the test itself since I've now gone into cardiac arrest thanks to the stupid test in question. I win.

Or here's another scenario: One of my classmates ends up being this hot guy who actually pays attention to me. We are paired up for a practice session on mending a broken leg. I am the patient. Hunk begins tending to my knee, but mistakenly gropes my breast, since my breasts now hang down to my knees thanks to gravity, menopause, and nursing children. Again, I win, because I got a free grope by a hot young pseudo-paramedic.

Or, here's yet another scenario for you to gnaw on: We're in gym class, and are told to go for a 45-minute run.Off we toddle, in a group, everyone with lithe, smooth legs in shorts, and short-sleeved shirts that show off muscles and tautness. And then there's me: my legs are varicosed, cellulite has gobbled most of them up, and my wobbles now have wobbles. We won't even talk about my arms. Meanwhile, everyone starts running. Except me, that is. I walk. Then I hobble. Then I sit on a rock and wait until I see classmates returning. I then get up and start making my way back to the school. As my classmates catch up to me, they are all impressed that I've beaten them all and am actually ahead of them, and without much sweat to speak of. I win again.

I've gotta remember that trick.

The point is, I'm old, and I think I'm actually insane. Certifiably. Although I just Googled "oldest paramedic" and came up with a story of a 78-year-old guy who passed all the tests and is the oldest living and working paramedic. I'm grasping, people. Grasping for anything, obviously.

Tomorrow I have to find an old ambulance to rent so that I can practise backing into parking spaces without taking off fenders, or tiny children and chihuahuas. Or tiny chihuahuas driving ambulances. Although they'd definitely need a few pillows to sit on so that they could see out the windshield.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Whereby I don't bother taking my camera and miss out on about 1,357 amazing shots that would have made me millions. Oh, and Happy Father's Day, dudes!

We went go-karting and mini-golfing Friday night, as part of a family fun event put on by Camp Quality. And it was lots of fun, and laughter, and all that good stuff. We even had hot dogs, chips and pop for dinner, which made the kids very happy.

I wish I had brought my camera (when will I learn?) because there were some awesome moments to capture, like when Slut put on her go-karting helmet and her face got smushed, or when Dee was speeding around the track, or when one of the kids got stuck in a cart with his legs sticking up in the air (well, it wasn't really funny because he's blind and has cancer, but then, if you can't laugh at that, what can you laugh at?). I also missed a really nice sunset. Luckily, Em at least took a photo of Slut with her ill-fitted helmet, but she couldn't upload it to my computer, so I'm screwed. You're welcome.

Meanwhile ...



* Whereby I find out that using fake tan lotion is less than I expected, and yet again, so much more than I ever wanted.


So, everyone, today's Father's Day. So, if you haven't already, go give your pop a big hug, tell him he's awesome, and grill him a burger. He'll be happy till next June. I'm going to go lay some flowers at my dad's gravesite and let him know once again that he was the best dad a girl could have.

I miss you Daddy.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

So apparently I am a drunken slob

My very very good friend Slut and I are about to embark on yet another adventure. I KNOW! I can hardly believe it myself, which is actually really a stupid thing to say, when you think about it for more than a split second, because obviously I'm one of the people embarking on said adventure WITH Slut, so why the hell WOULDN'T I believe it?! Unless, of course, I'm either schizophrenic, or maybe narcoleptic, in which case, who cares.

Exactly.

So, like I said, we're going on another adventure. As if New York City wasn't enough.

Slut picked me up Monday evening and off we went to learn more about our adventure. We had decided to volunteer for the HOPE Volleyball Summerfest, which is an annual charity event that gives the money raised to chosen charities. This year, one of the charities chosen is Camp Quality Eastern Ontario, a camp for kids with cancer. As most of you know, Dee had cancer and has been going to this camp for something like eight years now. Slut also has a son who went to this camp for many years.

Our volunteer area is working in the beer tent. Clearly, the decision-makers know us only too well.

Slut and I try to do our part in giving back. And then I found out we were going to be serving beer, not drinking it, and I felt pretty pissed off and almost threw a fit, but didn't because I have a few ideas up my proverbial sleeves, guys. Just try and stop me, volleyball people!

As we made our way to our training session for the volunteers, Slut and I had a heated discussion about the training session itself. Neither of us really knew what the hell it was all about, and why we even had to be there, since we are pretty much all-knowing and, even when we don't know, we usually get away with it. That's how we roll, guys.

We were told this was for SmartServe training, and Slut and I both thought we knew what it was, but what was actually the case was that neither one of us knew anything, including where the building was for the training. Somehow, though, we got there, and that's with Slut driving without her glasses. Apparently, she doesn't need them to drive.

Slut was pretty sure that the SmartServe training was to teach us about intoxication, how to say no to people who wanted more to drink but who had obviously had a wee too much, and what the laws were. Of course, I knew Slut was completely and utterly wrong. It was totally obvious that the SmartServe training was going to teach us how to serve drinks, how to pour the beer without causing too much foam, and how not to seem drunk when serving others their beers. Not sure why Slut thought it would be something as lame as learning the laws, but she did. Whatever.

Turns out Slut was totally right, and I was totally wrong.

We had to sit through two deadly hours of video presentation about people getting drunk and acting all crazy and stupid. I was thinking to myself that they could have saved themselves the money and time, and just had people come and watch me be myself for a while, and they would walk away fully knowing what to look for.

Because the signs of intoxication chart totally describe yours truly. Seriously. What.The.Hell? I maybe have one drink a month, if that, and here I am, being told I am an intoxicated slob who needs to go home and sleep it off? What gives, government police people?

Signs that totally describe me, as well as someone who's had a few too many mojitos, include annoying other guests, making sexual advances, using foul language, repeating jokes, being careless with money (Mr. Handsome would no doubt nod to that one!), unable to sit straight in a chair (hello! I have scoliosis! Thanks for judging, judgy people), stumbling, and difficulty seeing and hearing (once again, I'm pretty sure judging someone based on physical disabilities is totally wrong, and not so nice).

So, yeah, I'm a drunk.

And Slut was right about the training. But at least I knew where the event takes place. So I win. And Slut loses, because she thought it took place here:





and that people brought in truckfulls of sand for the event. Poor Slut. She lives in her own world at times. But I still love her like she was my own.

The event actually takes place here:




which is a great beach we have right in the middle of our city.

Next week, we go in again for orientation, which I'm pretty sure means they're going to advise us how to quaff down a keg of beer while carrying a tray of alcohol to tables without losing our way in the crowd.

****************************************************

Meanwhile, I wanted to tell everyone how much I appreciate their advice on the fake tan issue I've been having lately. I haven't taken anyone's advice yet, but I'm about to. However, now I'm in even more trouble because apparently you have to wash your hands after using this stuff, which I did, but it seems my palms are still tanning. So now I have palms that look like I've been playing with carrots all day long: Which I'm pretty sure I haven't been.





And also? Some water dripped up my arm, causing this to happen:




I don't think I can win the Battle of the Tans, guys.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

I'll take an 'H' for holes, please.

With the coming of summer comes the appearance and importance of The Tan. Especially when you live in Canada, where summer weather is at an all-time premium.

I'm sure you all do this at home, with your family and friends. As the warm weather progresses, you begin comparing tans. Of course you do.

I was committed to winning The Tan Wars in our house this year. Every year, I seem to lose, even against the dog. Let's just say I don't tan all that well. I just burn. Burn, then peel, then freckle. Part of the problem is obviously the fact that I don't sit out in the sun in the first place. I'm afraid of something called Cancer. Especially skin cancer, because that would just suck, getting huge holes in your flesh and all that.

Moving on.

In our house, Em and Mr. Handsome seem to get the best tans, without even trying. It's like they decide it's time for summer, and they come home half an hour later glowing like the sun. Must be nice.

In an effort to win the battle this year, seeing as I'm stuck inside most of the time studying chemistry and biology and fretting about how in the hell I'm going to manage all this and a tan, I decided to give myself a healthy glow the fake way, with fake tanning lotion. So, for the past few days, I've been slathering this:



onto my skin in an effort to look all sun-kissed and dewy without all the effort, and the cancer.

But what the fake tanning people don't tell you is that you have to be extremely careful during the slathering process, lest you are even the least bit uneven in the process of application of said fake tanning lotion.

Case in point:




WTF, Neutrogena?

I did everything you told me to do on the back of your bottle, and yet you deceive me. This tan is as fake as fake gets, guys! It's like I dipped my arms in a vat of cheap barbeque sauce, and then licked half of it off, so that there's a very explicit and definite line on my arms, one half tanned, the other half as white as unused toilet paper, or Mr. Handsome's butt.

Obviously, I'm now going to have to take precious time out of my grooming studying to rectify the situation, or else wear long-sleeved shirts all summer long. Which might not be such a bad idea in the first place, seeing as I now also have Old Lady Arms, with the flesh simply hanging off my upper arms, waving in the wind.

Holes in my flesh might be more desirable at this point.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Holy crap. Will wonders never cease? Or are we in for the shock of our lives?

Oh, happy day!

Because this



means this:




because ...

The neighbours have left!! The neighbours have left!!

Although Mr. Handsome has warned me that the new neighbours, who have not yet moved in, may be even worse than these guys, so I'm going to be smart for a change, keep my mouth shut, and silently pray to the gods above for a little luck this time.

 Meanwhile ...




* Check out this post for all the information you'd ever ever want about how utterly boring my life really is

* And then go here to find out about absolutely nothing at all.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

More New York, coupled with a needy poodle, and kids who think Facebook is more important than studying for finals

Bleccch.

That about sums it up.

It seems that studying biology 10 hours a day, in between driving Em to and from school, making dinner, and doing laundry is more than I can handle, especially when it's coupled with a migraine that just won't go away. Kind of like a spouse. Or a needy poodle. Same difference.




This post should have been out yesterday, but I couldn't do it. I spent the morning driving Em to school, drinking coffee and studying. And then by noon I had to take too many Tylenol and a codeine to try and block out the intense head pain that was knocking me to the ground, and I gave up studying and went to lie down in bed. Then I had to get up again and get Em from school. By that point, I had decided I wasn't making dinner because the only thing I'd be able to manage was making it back up to my bed and crawling under the covers, which I did, and there I stayed until 8 p.m., only waking up to turn over and cover my head up again. I then came downstairs, ate three pieces of pizza that Dee had made for dinner, sat around for an hour to be part of the whole "family thing", told Em to get off Facebook and study for her math exam, was given the Evil Eye by Em, who then proceeded to start a screaming match with yours truly, which continued as a screaming match for 10 more minutes because she really should be studying for her finals despite her great marks, and ended with Em going to bed, me going back to bed, and the world was once again quiet.

You wish you could have this much fun, guys.

So ... Day 2 of New York City.

Part of our bus tour included a four-hour tour of the city, and I had decided early on that I was going to go because it was a good way to see the best of the city, and was also the perfect way to sleep a little longer. I was tired, man.

And getting sick, as it happens.

One of the first stops we made, where we got off and walked, was Central Park, not far from where John Lennon was shot, which sent shivers down my spine, just thinking about it.




I almost got bitten by a snarly, rat-like dog while I was totally minding my own business in the Park, which kind of ruined the whole moment for me, but it's par for the course in Mary's World.




Then I saw this:




and I have no idea what this is, but it was awesome cool. Does anyone know what this is??? Anyone? Anyone? Buehler?

And I also stopped in my tracks when I saw this:




I think this is honeysuckle. Please correct me if I'm wrong, which I probably am, because I'm apparently rarely right, according to my kids, my husband, and anyone else who knows me even remotely.

Then we stopped again in the Flatiron district, and before I saw the famous flatiron building, I saw this:


which is a naked person, but not really. It's just a statue of a naked person, guys. You can stop the heavy breathing now. What this naked statue was doing in the middle of the sidewalk is beyond me. I asked the tour guide, but he ignored me.



The Flatiron Building, named the Flatiron Building because its shape resembles -- you guessed it! -- a flat iron! Guys, I've always wanted to see this building, and now I have. If I die tomorrow, I will die a happy person.

And, of course, I snapped a quick shot of this



as we passed by on the bus. Wall Street and Broadway.

Apologies for the rather high crappiness factor of this photo. You try taking a picture of an intersection as your bus speeds past. Not only that, but its windows were tinted, so taking photos through them was an Olympian event in itself.

I think I've sufficiently bored you all to a semi-comatose state by now, so I'll continue with the second half of my city tour next time we get together. Until then, I'm back to the books, cleaning the kitchen, and doing the same load of laundry for the tenth time because I keep forgetting it's in the washing machine and then when I remember, I open it up and am greeted by a waft of undescribable odour -- also known as rotting clothing.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

A post about absolutely nothing at all. Not even a picture.

Today's post is about nothing, like a Seinfeld episode, but without the millions of dollars attached to it. Or the laughter.

I have a headache that I've now had on and off for a week. I'm thinking brain tumour. It's probably just my sinuses, but I like living big. If that can be called living big. Does "living big" even mean anything? I have no idea.

Moving on...

Em has been in a leg cast for a week now (she walked into a wall last Tuesday and broke a toe -- a spiral fracture -- right in two), and she's getting pretty good at hobbling about on crutches. We got back to the hospital in a week-and-a-half for a check-up, whereby they'll probably tell her she needs to stay in the cast for another three months because she keeps standing on the side of that foot, and I keep telling her it's going to hurt the healing process, but does she ever listen? No, she doesn't. Anyway, I feel for the kid (although it doesn't really sound much like it, does it...) because it really is hard work getting around on crutches. You don't realize it unless you've actually experienced it, I guess. I see her struggling to do simple things like make a sandwich for her lunch, or try to take a bath. Not a great way to end the school year, but she should be back on her feet (pun totally intended) by mid-July, UNLESS SHE KEEPS WALKING ON HER FOOT.

Meanwhile, I've been having to drive her to and from school everyday, help her get into the school and back into the car, and basically, I've become her little minion, her bond servant. And I thought being her mother made me one already. Not quite, apparently. Because, when your normally independent 15-year-old suddenly needs help to do just about anything, you realize how much freedom you actually had.

I'm not complaining, although it basically sounds like it. OK, I'm complaining. But not bitterly. OK, I'm bitter. You win.

In the meantime, I'm trying to finish off my high school biology course, doing a full year's worth of course work in three weeks, just so that I can start another course of chemistry, which is most probably going to kill me and put me in my grave. After that, I still have to get my license to drive an ambulance, and get my first aid updated, and all this so that I can actually take the paramedic program this fall.

Although I'm really excited about the prospects, I'm also very nervous, very scared, and having a lot of doubts about my plans. Because, you know, I'm not young anymore, nor am I all that energetic, and I tend to get overwhelmed rather easily. So, by all means, Mary, take the paramedic program, which everyone tells you is extremely intensive and difficult. Okay, I think I will! Story of my life.

Anyway, I have to get studying, but I promise the next post to be about more New York excitement. Or not. 

P.S. I wanted to post a picture of Em's swollen and black-and-blue foot, but she wouldn't let me. Nice going, Em. I'll remember that next time you ask me for help

Sunday, June 6, 2010

I win the award for worst blogger of the millennium, or at least of the day

I've been a bad blogger.

I don't comment on the comments, I don't visit other blogs, and I don't even update my own blog as often as I'd like. I'd like to take this amazing opportunity to apologize for all of the above. You guys mean more to me than just about anything, including that nice, really soft toilet paper that is kind to my butt, and really cold apple juice.

It's just that I've been busy. Really busy. I don't know how people do this blog thing. Honestly. Where do you all get the time to write, read everyone's blogs, comment, etc.? I've been studying biology every minute of every day lately, trying to get an entire year's course done in two weeks. Crazy, but true. And then I have chemistry to do, which is scaring me something fierce, but truck on I will.

Add to that the fact that Em walked into a wall early this week and broke her toe, resulting in a visit to the emergency department at the children's hospital, where she was put into a cast and crutches and is now very much an invalid and needing help with things like getting to and from school, bathing, and wiping her nose. And then, to top the week off, Dee got sick, sore throat and nausea, so I've been doing a lot of mothering, which I guess is okay since I am a mother, but lately, I just want to get off this crazy roller coaster called life and rest a little. Oh, and did I mention that Mr. Handsome was out of town for a few days while all this was going on? Yeah, he was.



Anyway, this is what else I did this week:


* I talk here about my trip to New York City, which is more exciting than most people could bear




Wednesday, June 2, 2010

You can thank me later.

I once again saved my family from a most certain death on Monday, and I have my nose to thank.

You see, I have an extremely keen sense of smell. Until Monday, I felt this talent -- nay, this gift from the gods above -- was just a joke, a funny little thing the gods do to people just because they can: giving various people in the world totally useless gifts.


The gods have a not-so-funny sense of humour. Please click if you want to read the print that is clearly too small to read, unless you have 10/20 vision and are a freak.

In fact, my acute sense of smell is actually a great pain in the ass most of the time. Because I am always the first one who smells something, often the ONLY one who smells something, and that "something" is most often something most people would not want to smell.

Case in point: Gryphon eats something out of the garbage and ends up having two days of very bad gas, which no one but me notices.



Another case in point: the guinea pig cage needs to be changed, and of course, no one notices but me. Awesome.

Yet another case in point: there's something rotting in the fridge. Of course, I realize this before the food actually even goes bad. Everyone else? When the food is a melting puddle of mush at the bottom of the fridge.

As you can see, most of these things are pretty much useless things to notice. And when I do, I always exclaim, "Oh my god! Do you smell that?!" And everyone usually looks at one another, and then at me, and shake their heads, and then feel my forehead to make sure I'm not burning up with a high fever.

And I have to yet again remind my family that no, I don't have a fever, I just have a very acute sense of smell that is totally useless.

So, back to Monday.

I wake up at 7 a.m. to the acrid smell of smoke. I like sleeping with the window open, which is normally really pleasant, except for the screeching of those stupid, perpetually happy birds who want everyone to know they're awake and raring to go at 4-freaking-a.m. So, I wake up to this smell, and I immediately know it's not a "good smoke" smell, which is more like a fire-in-a-fireplace smell, and not a there's-polyester-and-plastic-burning-up smoke smell.

This smell is a bad fire smell, and my instincts immediately perk up and I am wide awake. I jump out of bed, run to the door, and yell down the stairs, asking Dee (who wakes up at 6 to watch cartoons on t.v., god help his little soul) if he's turned on the furnace because it's a tad chilly out that morning. No to the furnace. I run and put in my contact lenses so that I can see, and then check around our bed, thinking that perhaps the ceiling fan is on fire. What? Ceiling fans can burst into flame. Yes, they can.

Then I go to Em's room and check to make sure her flat iron hasn't touched a tissue or perhaps a curtain, or maybe a pair of dirty underwear. Nope.

I then run downstairs and check the stove, the furnace room, the dryer. Nothing.

And then I open the front door, and lo and behold, a wall of smoke hits my face, and I hear sirens in the distance. And a certain calm lands over me as I realize that it's not us, but some other unlucky bastard whose house is burning to the ground. And I heave a heavy sigh of relief and close the door. And then I start getting a little upset, because this damn smell woke me up, and now I was doomed to a day of fatigue. Thanks for that, unlucky people who are probably out on the street now. Good going.

And that is how I saved everyone from a certain death. And now, my nose no longer feels entirely useless. In fact, I am thinking of donating it to science.

Update: I found out that the smoke is actually coming from 57 forest fires burning in Quebec, to which we're very close. I hope all the little animals find their way out.

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