If you ever pay a visit to my house unannounced, don’t think you’re getting beyond the front door. Carefully contrived plans rivaling the landings at Normandy have been prepared for such a catastrophic event.
Dogs will bark. Children will howl. Televisions will blare. And amidst the chaos, I’ll escape out the back entrance and intercept you by the second knock, most likely wearing day old pajama bottoms and hiding my braless chest with folded arms.
For the record, my family and I do not allow people in because we hide dead bodies in our basement freezer. Not that I blame others for thinking that. With all the icy fuzz coating undefinable slabs of meat, anyone could confuse a 2-year-old hot dog for a frozen human thumb.
Unfortunately, a deeper secret saturates the halls of the Beam household. And once the door opens, a quick whiff of organic ammonia interlaced with Febreze would give it away to anyone remotely nearby. In all seriousness, my avoidance might save your life.
The smell permeating from the foyer would be so strong, unsuspecting guests might immediately grab their nose, back away from the door and most likely tumble down the stone stairs wondering, “What is that foul, acrid stench?”
Just to clarify for those who don’t have a crazy cat lady living in the immediate vicinity, the odor you’d be inhaling would be urine.
You see, our 10-year-old cat Ramzi suffers from some serious mental issues, so much so the other neighbor felines refer to me as the Nurse Ratched of the kitty world. Gifted at passive aggressiveness, my tubby tabby copes with his mundane life by peeing on our upstairs carpet. I’m not talking about a little tinkle now and again. A beached whale could survive for hours in one of his puddles. No matter what steps we take to stop his habit, he circumvents every one.