It is 9:20 a.m. as I write this, and it has already been one of those mornings. In one of those weeks.
Bill called me soon after leaving for work and said, "Something smells, Clare. Check it out."
So what else is new? Something smells around here. And the sky is blue. And my name is Clare.
Duh. to the Uh.
"No, for real. It smells like gas."
Duh. Again. We have three boys and one girl. These things happen.
"Go outside and smell it yourself and make sure the inside of the house doesn't smell. Call the gas company."
Dang. All four of my kids are still peacefully sleeping, and I don't. want. to. move.
But I'm not really interested in being skyrocketed to the moon if my house blows up. I don't have time for such things. My list of errands for the day is a long one and I have no time for tedious little things like house explosions. Besides, I am quite looking forward to going to Target this afternoon because I haven't been there in over 3 weeks. THREE WEEKS, people. Target is going to put an APB out on me if I don't cross the threshold of the big red bulls-eye soon. Reunited and it feels so good, Tar-jhay.
So I called the gas company and told them I smelled a sulphur-like smell outside of my house, but not inside. If you've never had the pleasure of calling the gas company at 7:00 a.m., then try it, because you are missing out. There's nothing like your friendly customer service agent scaring the bejeez out of you this early in the morning, and basically inferring that you and your brood are going to die of a gas explosion if you so much as make one little spark of static electricity as you shuffle across your carpet. I woke all of my peacefully sleeping children and put them on alert because she advised me that we might have to GET. THE. HECK. OUTTA. DODGE. if the house starts to smell of gas. Even though my house didn't smell like gas yet.
I should have waited to wake them up, because only idiots wake up peacefully sleeping children, when their front yard smells like gas, but the inside of their house does not. Clearly, I don't do my best thinking at 7:15 a.m.
Mr. Gas Man showed up at about 7:35 a.m. sporting the sweetest Fu Manchu mustache I have ever seen on a person. He was quite tall, looked like a wrestler for the WWE, and he was way too chipper for the hour and the situation.
"Hey darlin'!" he practically shouted in my face when I opened the door. His southern accent compelled him to continue by calling me "Sweetie". "Sweetie, I heard y'all are having some gas problems 'round here?"
Must. Not. Make. A. Joke. About. My. Boys. And. Their. Flatulence.
"Well, my husband and I both smelled something funny outside this morning, and I just wanted to be sure it wasn't natural gas."
"Yup, Yup! That's smart, girl! Smart! Y'all cain't mess around with gas. You just cain't never be too careful!" he said as he sniffed the air. "Yup. I smell sumpin. I smell sumpin funny. I'm gonna check it out."
This man's smile and attitude was infectious. For someone that deals with gas all day, and is this chipper at 7:35 a.m., I was impressed. After all, I could learn something about having a positive attitude from him, because we have something in common. You know, since we both...ahem...work in the gas industry.
He ran some tests and then rang the doorbell again. "Well, it's not gas. I can tell ya that fer sure. Ya know what I think it is? I think it's a pole cat. Yup. I think it's a pole cat."
A pole cat. Never heard of one, but it sounds fierce. And scary. Is a pole cat like a bobcat? Or a cougar? Or a mountain lion? Here in lil' ol' suburban Ohio?
Must. Google. Now.
I thanked him and wished him a nice day, and then ran to my computer. I typed the words, "pole cat" into the search bar, but google scolded me and by telling me that it is actually spelled, "polecat". Sorry, Google. You are the all-knowing. I am just a scared housewife who has convinced herself that a cougar who enjoys feasting on small children has taken up residence in my garage. You know, no bigs.
Unfortunately, a polecat is way less exciting than that. A polecat is a weasel, you guys. As in Pop Goes The.
He'd actually be kind of cute if he wasn't so malodorous and skunk-like. Also, there's the small little detail that I don't dig varmints of any kind. Or weasels. Or rodents.
Nature scares me sometimes, as my DNA contains 87.3% wimp, and only 12.7% badass. I'll be sure to keep you updated if I have an actual run-in with Pop, my alleged weasel friend. There might be a slight delay in the sighting of the animal, and the actual blog posting, however, what with me having to scrape myself off the ground and issue smelling salts to myself after I pass out from fright. I'll also let you know if it's even possible to issue smelling salts to wake yourself up after you pass out from fright. My guess is probably not.
My kids better not find him first and start feeding him Goldfish crackers, because then he will never leave, and he will invite his polecat friends to our house for a polecat party, where they will feast on our garbage, and do whatever it is that polecats do. Pole dance? Who knows, really?
I said, "No" to a dog for now, but knowing my children, they'll try to find a loophole, and argue that I never said no to polecats, and, "Can't we pleeeeeassseee have a pet weasel, Mommy, PLEEEEAAAASEEE?" No matter that I had never heard the word, "polecat" before 7:45 a.m. on July 22, 2010, and therefore could never properly issue a "NO POLECATS" decree.
And there's the small detail that polecats are dirty, disgusting rodents who smell of sulphur.
Never a boring day.