Be Glad There are No Pictures

Looks like a lot of folks got in the mood for redecorating their blogs. It sure is easier than painting the living room or cutting the grass. I don't want to talk about cleaning anything but I have to. Later I will claim temporary insanity for writing this but I am A.-drugged to the gills and B.-still freaked out about the whole thing.

For most of the month of June I kept smelling something. Something Bad. Since my Kat Krew is notorious for bringing their victims into the house, I went on the hunt, sniff sniff, sniff. Had my son drag the kitchen stove away from the wall and tip it back so I could check for whatever. In the past, the odor was tracked to a dead frog under the stove. Nothing there this time but the evidence of my negligent housekeeping - various sizes of dustbunnies, a few petrified french fries and a dirty spoon. I searched high and low and came up empty handed and still the smell bugged me. I made Colin throw out his old sneakers and buy new ones. My husband and both my sons started looking at me askance and I thought I caught that "she's got the vapors look" that the men in my house flash one another when they think I can't see them.

Today, I was vindicated {{{{{shudder}}}}}}

Oh, the drugs. I have been bothered more and more frequently with an allergic reaction that makes my upper lip swell up until I look like Goldie Hawn in "the First Wives Club" with the extra trashy collagen job on her lips except that my mouth was always lopsided. The skin around my mouth and nose right up to my forehead has no feeling, like a stiff dose of novocaine has been stabbed between my eyebrows. Charming. I decided I had a brain tumor and gave up on worrying about the smell.

Today I finally took my fat lip to show the doctor because this time, I could feel the swelling in my throat and decided things were getting serious. She tut-tutted me, gave me a shot and a prescription for pills and a needle I can slam into my thigh ( now There's a Thrill I've never had) in case I start turning purple and a referral to an allergist. More needles to come.

So I get home and sat down at the big computer downstairs and what do I hear?
"Yeeeep-yeeep----urk,urk,urk" - the call of the Georgia Treefrog, who, with the 10 inches of rain that we have had in the last week, have decided to move inside the house no matter what the Katz have to say about it. I whirled around on my chair and pinpointed the last echo to the underside of my big fluffy white whorehouse chair, I mean chaise. I called for the Beef to lift the end of the chair up so I could evict the wayward frog and what do I find? A RODENT'S MUMMY! Arrrrggg! Gross. Disgusting.
Long dead and no longer odiferous. After cleaning that up, we settled back down to listen for the frog. I have GOT to find him before he starts to smell too.