Burnout and Cooking, Oh and Smoke, too. Lots of it.

Hey all my favorite peeps! My post today is over at The Scribblers Cove. Soooooo, just to whet your appetite, here's the opening paragraphs:

Tuesday turned out to be a pretty smokin' day. Literally. As in the whole house filled with it, and we all still smell like a toxic campfire. Think of it as our new perfume. We're calling it Burnt Burrito. So sexy. Meowwwww! Want some?

So, how did we all end up burritofied? Let's just say Kid C decided he could cook. By himself. Without permission. Yes, be afraid. I'm still having nightmares. Shudder.

The first clue that something was amiss reached me as I worked in my office. A tendril of charring snaked into the room and coiled up my nose. The mom alarm in me spazamed, and I ran from the room to find the billowing burrito. Did you know that if you fricassee one of those they become weightless? Really. And they turn blacker than the heart of a demon. I know, I checked. Don't ask how that is so another post.

Head on over to The Scribblers Cove for the rest of the story. And what's that? I'm a big meanie? Why thank you. I'm so glad you noticed. Mwahahahahaha!

The Netherworld.

I have a great sense of smell. It is my divining rod in a world of taste, sights, and scents. When I walk into a room my nose goes ahead of me, scouting out the path, searching for trouble, identifying everything. Usually this is a good thing. Think of how enjoyable it is to enter a room with hot apple pie sending tendrils out to tickle my nose and excite my taste buds. But then there is the Netherworld.

My hubby took me there. It was awful. We barely made it out alive.

I have always read that the Netherworld is down under-way down under. And hot. You know, flames of hell and all that stuff: fire, brimstone, sulphur, a guy with horns and a pitchfork, screaming sinners.

Well it's a lie. It isn't like that. I know, I've been there, and it's closer than you think. You can drive there. And it's busy. The Netherworld is located at the town dump. My skin is crawling just remembering. Shudder.

Even garbage doesn't deserve to go to such a stinky place.

I am usually a brave person. I mean, I stuck my hand down a ripe toilet after all, but I had to draw a line in the oozing muck. I wouldn't get out of the van. I sat there, curled into the fetal position, wailing about the smell as it lashed out and struck me again, and again.

I'm still dazed.

Did you know that not only do people pay to go there, they work there. On purpose. Talk about brave! They show up every day in their soiled coveralls and grin big toothy grins as you drive through the gates.

And did you know people live by the dump? Seriously! There are houses next door! Do they all own hazmat suits? How can they eat when everything smells like rotten swine mingled with burnt metal and boiled glop? I think you'd have to de-nose me.

The next time my hubby wants to go to the dump, he's on his own. I served my time. The whole thirty-two minutes. And I'm not going back.