ahream

You know you’re having a bad day when you get a strawberry Nutri-Grain bar crumb in your eye, and that’s not the most uncomfortable thing to happen to you in the past eight hours – nor is the resulting conversation with your husband.

Him: “It’s in your EYE?!”

Me: (red-faced and rubbing it) “Yes.”

Him: “What? Did you stick your whole face in the wrapper or something?”

Me: (indignant) “No!”

And I didn’t. I was delicately licking the wrapper when my finger got some crumbs on it. And then I touched my eye. Could’ve happened to anyone.

Nope, the worst thing in my day was Mr. Stinky Pants.

I have a nose problem. When I run, I breathe very, very deeply. Some might say wheeze and pant – I say breathe deeply. And you would be amazed at the olfactory deluge that gets you. Nasal shock and awe. I smell flowers in the bushes. I smell coffee in the cups of passersby. I smell some seriously stank cologne. I smell Mr. Stinky Pants.

And I’ll take a Nutri-Grain bar crumb in the eye over him any day.

Mr. Stinky Pants has been drawing social security for awhile now. And just before the Denny’s early-bird lunch special, he pulls on his black knee socks, yellowing wife-beater undershirt and too-short shorts and moseys on down to my gym. He does not stop to shower. Because really, when you haven’t showered or washed your undershirt in three weeks, why start now?

And what does Mr. Stinky Pants do? He climbs on the treadmill next to me, of course, and raises his arms.

I can’t...there’s not...no words.

Imagine hot garbage mixed with grapefruit, a definite sour-citrus after-smell.

Brain: “Stop breathing! Stop breathing!”

Lungs: “Bad idea! Bad idea!”

Brain: “Well, think of something!”

I thought about just asking him to please move. Full-on honesty. “You are Mr. Stinky Pants!” Then I felt bad. So I thought about pointing at his machine and gasping, “Oh my God, did you just see that spark?! Your treadmill’s about to catch on fire!” But then I was afraid workmen would come and make ME move to inspect it.

I was running out of options, and I hadn’t taken a breath in three-quarters of a mile. Things were starting to go a little fuzzy at the edges, so I did what any sane person would do. I put my gym towel over my face. Subtle? No. Effective? Yes.

Also it’s a good look for robbing banks and my second career as a veiled belly dancer. Now if only I had some of those finger cymbals...

ahream Dispatches from the City of Angels I'm a mystery writer living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my short story, "Running Venice," in the new anthology LAndmarked for Murder. Look for it in bookstores and on Amazon.com now. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often.
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Previous Entry :: Next Entry Read/Post Comments (2) Most Recent Twitters: A 3-foot long alligator was found walking down the middle of the street in Venice Beach this morning. I love L.A. In case you were wondering, it is very difficult to get a hummingbird out of your house. They are irrational and prone to hysterics. L.A. Finds: The Nickel Diner on Main between 5th and 6th is a made-to-look-old, throwback of a place that melds into the old downtown and is, at the same time, part of the renaissance. They serve their burgers medium, their soda in bottles and offer all they can to locals in need. Flickr Updates: The second Thursday of every month is the Downtown Art Walk. The galleries stay open late, the restaurants are packed, bands perform on the streets. God, I love L.A. What I'm Reading: Attack of the Unsinkable Rubber Ducks by Christopher Brookmyre What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami Want E-Mail Updates? Click here, type your e-mail address into the first field (for public entries) and receive an e-mail note each time a new blog post goes up. (Photo updates, Twitters and "L.A. Finds" features not included. Those you have to swing by and check yourself.) Absolutely, positively no spam. Promise. Other author blogs: Sue Ann Jaffarian Eric Stone Christa Faust Lipstick Chronicles		2006-12-05 8:42 AM Mr. Stinky Pants You know you’re having a bad day when you get a strawberry Nutri-Grain bar crumb in your eye, and that’s not the most uncomfortable thing to happen to you in the past eight hours – nor is the resulting conversation with your husband. Him: “It’s in your EYE?!” Me: (red-faced and rubbing it) “Yes.” Him: “What? Did you stick your whole face in the wrapper or something?” Me: (indignant) “No!” And I didn’t. I was delicately licking the wrapper when my finger got some crumbs on it. And then I touched my eye. Could’ve happened to anyone. Nope, the worst thing in my day was Mr. Stinky Pants. I have a nose problem. When I run, I breathe very, very deeply. Some might say wheeze and pant – I say breathe deeply. And you would be amazed at the olfactory deluge that gets you. Nasal shock and awe. I smell flowers in the bushes. I smell coffee in the cups of passersby. I smell some seriously stank cologne. I smell Mr. Stinky Pants. And I’ll take a Nutri-Grain bar crumb in the eye over him any day. Mr. Stinky Pants has been drawing social security for awhile now. And just before the Denny’s early-bird lunch special, he pulls on his black knee socks, yellowing wife-beater undershirt and too-short shorts and moseys on down to my gym. He does not stop to shower. Because really, when you haven’t showered or washed your undershirt in three weeks, why start now? And what does Mr. Stinky Pants do? He climbs on the treadmill next to me, of course, and raises his arms. I can’t...there’s not...no words. Imagine hot garbage mixed with grapefruit, a definite sour-citrus after-smell. Brain: “Stop breathing! Stop breathing!” Lungs: “Bad idea! Bad idea!” Brain: “Well, think of something!” I thought about just asking him to please move. Full-on honesty. “You are Mr. Stinky Pants!” Then I felt bad. So I thought about pointing at his machine and gasping, “Oh my God, did you just see that spark?! Your treadmill’s about to catch on fire!” But then I was afraid workmen would come and make ME move to inspect it. I was running out of options, and I hadn’t taken a breath in three-quarters of a mile. Things were starting to go a little fuzzy at the edges, so I did what any sane person would do. I put my gym towel over my face. Subtle? No. Effective? Yes. Also it’s a good look for robbing banks and my second career as a veiled belly dancer. Now if only I had some of those finger cymbals... Read/Post Comments (2) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top