Fermented grass OR Why I get sick in my own garage

I don't see much of Paul these days. He gets home after I go to bed; I leave the house before he wakes up. With the MAMML lab in overdrive, our lives are in separate holding patterns. I'll come home and he's mowed the lawn. He'll come home and I've straightened the breakfast room. Neither one of us has bothered to change the fluorescent light in the kitchen that burned out a month ago -- I think that might take two people, so it'll have to wait. (Have I mentioned I'm ready for Matt to come back? He cooks, he cleans, he watches Law & Order with me and in general provides some mental stimulation...)

Anyway, it's been catch as catch can in our household lately. If we're lucky, we can have dinner together. If not, I grab something on the way home from work, and he grabs something on the way home from the lab. Last night, we managed to meet at Rafferty's for a nice meal.

On the way home, I fuel up the Vue, buy myself a bottle of Fuze Green Tea, and treat my car to a super-deluxe $7 car wash -- partly out of guilt that I haven't taken it in for an oil change even though the CHANGE OIL SOON light is on. My car goes through eight cycles of washes, rinses, clear coat shiner-uppers, etc. Then I drive home, glad my car once again looks like the shiznit.

I pull into the garage, completely forgetting the lawnmower smells like it's been chopping up small mammals. ("Fermented grass," Paul muses. "Why don't you bag up the clippings?" I ask him. "Fertilizer," he replies.) I gulp for breath, but it's too late and I'm gagging and running for the door. I make it to the half-bath right inside the doorway and toss my cookies. Or in this case, toss my buffalo chicken tenders and garlic mashed potatoes.

Feeling better, I use the last of the hotel room-sized mouthwash and walk to the bedroom to change clothes ... and realize my purse, satchel, bottle of Fuze and the mail are still in the car. I try to hold my breath long enough to grab my things. And I do grab my things ... then throw up all over the floor of my newly clean car.

I made every attempt to go out and wipe it up, but the smell was so bad that I got sick twice more before giving up. When Paul came home at 3:30 a.m., he scrubbed it out for me.

::Sighs:: I'm really trying to get over my gag reflex. (Again: Mind outta the gutter, folks.) I gag at the smell of cat food. When I swallow pills. When I brush my teeth. When other people get sick. Once upon a time, I wanted to be a medical examiner. (Hey, there's something nobody knows about me!) But I realize now I'd just spend most of my day puking on people's corpses.

I think I'll just leave you with that mental image. Peace, guys.