The Next Martha Stewart?

When I started my blog, I said I wanted it to be an insight into my brain, so you could feel you knew me better and we were friends. In that vein, I've shared things that have surprised me and those who know me well, because I'm pretty private generally (surprise surprise). Having said that, I debated the wisdom of my next post, because there's a fine line between knowing someone, and thinking them a complete retard and hot mess. I'm beginning to suspect that if this blog goes on much longer, anyone who reads it will begin to believe the latter.

So you'd remember I bought myself a power washing attachment, yes? While this has nothing to do with it directly, that freaking attachment is responsible (something has to be and I refuse to acknowledge it could be me) for what I'm writing.

After concluding that there was no place for a hose and power washer inside a house, I took it back into the yard for a test drive so to speak, to see how it stood up against the cleaning resistant layers of moss around my house.

It was crap. That's what my brain kept telling me while insisting that I persevere because I spent so much money on the stupid thing so I had to use it. All this, while simultaneously appreciating the appetizing smells wafting from my neighbours kitchen. The scent kept getting stronger. Strong enough, in fact, to reach me where I was, way in the back of my yard, with my power washer in hand. Strong enough for me to start thinking to myself that maybe she should take it off the stove right about now because it smelled like it was beginning to burn.

Then I remembered.

This.

I wish that picture was also a scratch and sniff because words can't describe how bad my house smelled.

I also wish I could describe the moment of absolute horror tinged with resignation when I realised it was MY forgotten pot on the stove smelling like that, and how I must've looked pelting pellmell back into the house.

There's a reason I don't cook. This is it.