In Which I Place The Hazmat Number On Speed Dial
Okay, so I'm not the greatest housekeeper.
I'm just throwing that out there. I admit if there is any kind of diversion to distract me from cleaning, I take it and then promptly blame it later for my shortcomings in the house beautiful category. I can't help it. I'm lame like that.
Take the refrigerator, for example.
I have seen some things... some horrible, HORRIBLE things festering in the dark corners of our Frigidaire, but even I was immobilized by the abomination homesteading in the veggie drawer.
All I wanted was some peppers to make pepper steak. I innocently opened the crisper to find this Demonic Denizen dripping like an Amityville inhabitant, spewing forth its sickly spores into my airways.
What the???! GAG!?!! ICK!!?! CHOKE!! HACK!
Hands down one of the grossest things to surprise me in a long time. This stuff was so dead, even that adorable Pie Man from Pushing Daisies couldn't reanimate them.
I said a few Hail Marys, donned the head-to-toe yellow Hazmat jumpsuit and grabbed that 10 foot pole we have lying around for just such an occasion in order to extract the offending former life form.
After pouring enough bleach on that drawer to turn Michael Jackson into a white woman (what...too soon?), I promptly fixed myself a double tall boy for medicinal reasons.
Yeah, medicinal reasons. That's the ticket.
The sad thing is, in my cold and twisted heart I know this is not an isolated incident. It will happen again. Be afraid. Be very, very afraid. No Martha Stewart am I. She stopped by once to show me a trick or two, but I haven't seen her since.
Come to think of it...what is that blond thing behind the meat keeper...