I Could Smell You Across the Room

Pssst. Can we talk about something? It’s kind of embarrassing, so you might want to lean in. I promise to whisper.

I walked into a medical lab yesterday and was accosted by a pungent smell. I thought to myself, “man, I’ll have to ask the staff to be more mindful of the detergent they use to wash things.” Then I realized that the smell was coming from the retiree in front of me at the counter. Tide. Or Gain. Phew!

What I just don’t understand is why detergent manufacturers have to so overly perfume their products that the smell lingers for months after a washing. Are laundry detergent chemicals so terribly pungent that companies have to add a ton of perfume to cover up another, worse smell? If so, perhaps it’s time to find a better formula that uses less toxic and less noxious ingredients.

Personally, I use Costco’s Kirkland brand, which does what detergents are supposed to do: it cleans. More than that, however, is the fact that the light scent dissipates by the time the clothes come out of the dryer. Nice. So, if I _were_ a perfume wearer, which I’m not, you would be able to smell the $500/ounce rather than the $5/pound scent.

Point is, folks, please let me meet _you_ first; not the putrid stench that precedes the introduction! You’ll know it’s too much if I’m choking, gagging, and my face is turning pink before I can say “Hello.”

Welcome to hopedoty.com!

Wouldn’t you know that on the very day I planned to start my new web site, it happened! Today’s post was supposed to be full of (certainly many) bright and pithy comments, well thought out insights, and a veritable smorgasbord of intelligent spew. Sadly, however, what you are getting is this:

OW. MY HAND HURTS!

Yes, pathetic, ain’t it? Here’s what actually happened:

While riding on safari in Africa recently, a rather large (and probably rabid) wildebeest attacked our caravan for no particular reason. After attempting several times to shoot the maniacal creature and save the lives of countless number in our party, my gun jammed.

While our intrepid driver, Pepe, risked life and limb kicking at the crazed wildebeest through the open door of the Land Rover, I tried desperately to clear the jam. At some point–it all gets kind of blurry from here–the gun slipped from my grasp.

With the incredibly quick reflexes born of a natural hunter, I dove instinctively for the weapon. But I missed. The gun flew into the air, as if in slow motion, hitting the wildebeest on the rump and causing him to veer off away from the Land Rover just as I flew headfirst out of the vehicle!

Luckily for me, the only part of me caught under the tire of the now-speeding Land Rover was my left hand. “Why did it have to be my left hand?” I would later cry from my hospital bed…

Yeah, I know, it would have been a good story, if only it were true. Truth is, the doctors–three of them who were apparently bored on a Friday afternoon–could not explain why my index finger is purple and my thumb aches. They did, however strangely, ponder everything from lung cancer to leprosy in front of me (“but we don’t want to scare you or anything”). Thanks. Thanks a lot.