Noxious, Festering Onions and Their Old Armpit Perfume (Alternately Titled, "Grossest Post Title Ever")

I know I've already posted today, but I'm listening to Joan Baez, and she makes me want to write. Or maybe smoke some marijuana. I will resist the latter urge, but writing--now that's legal!

For your reading pleasure, I present to you an email conversation that Stephen and I had yesterday. A lingering bad smell in the kitchen which I could smell and Stephen could not is the "nastiness" to which I refer.

Email from Christine to Stephen, 2:31 PM. Subject line: "I have located the source of the nastiness..."

..and it was a tupperware full of old onions.

AND THEY STINK.

SO VERY BADLY.

I actually feel physically ill every time I get anywhere near the kitchen, despite my best attempts to rid the room of the odor. They smell like old, sweaty armpits (old armpits?), and for some reason that particular odor sends me right back to a period of my life when my parents had a membership at the Y. I had to take swim lessons, and I hated them. And I must associate sweaty bodies with said hated lessons, because I am just feeling all kinds of resentment and deep-set angst at the moment.

All because the onions, they stink.

(You wouldn't have happened to magically poop out some spending money so we can hightail it outta this house and eat somewhere fancy like Taco Bell, have you?)

(Just wondering.)

THIS. HOUSE. STINKS.

I love you,

-your neurotic wife

Reply email from Stephen to Christine, 2:44 PM:

Yes.  I have pooped money.  Come and pick me up at approximately 5:30 tonight and we will go to Taco Bell.  I say 5:30 because I am kind of swamped with things (you should see my desk-- COVERED in notes and stickies) but if you can wait that long, you and me and all the kiddies will get to eat out.  Goot?

Reply to reply, Christine to Stephen, 2:54 PM:

YAY!! I love it when you poop money.

____________________

Now the playlist has transitioned from Joan Baez to "I'm Holding Out for a Hero," and it makes me want to take up kick-boxing and crime fighting and the composing of cheesy 80s rock ballads.

And yes, in case you were wondering, Taco Bell is the height of culinary ecstasy for our family, and we enjoyed our time there very much. We feasted on 7-Layer Burritos and those fried potatoes slathered in cheese and sour cream, and the boys discovered the joys of booster seats. It was a delightful experience.

And when we returned to the house from Taco Bell, the offensive old armpit smell assaulted us as soon as we stepped in the door. Stephen chastised me for taking the stinky onions out of their sealed container and dumping them in the garbage, where they festered and polluted the entire house (not just the kitchen) with their noxious perfume.

I love the word "noxious."

I pouted for awhile, then had to admit he was right. At least I got Taco Bell out of the whole experience.