Last week I was delivering a beautiful crocheted blanket from my aunt to my mom. My friend Nicole happened to get a glimpse of what was in my bag, and she gave me a very perplexed look.

“You didn’t make that, did you?” she challenged.

“No, I’m just the delivery service,” I admitted.

“’Cuz I was gonna say—you don’t strike me as the crocheting type. Or really the crafty type at all,” she continued.

I had to stop her right there. “Now stop right there,” I ordered. “I’m crafty and shit.”

“No way. I don’t believe you.”

“I make tons of crafty shit.”

“Name one project you’ve made. And a vase filled with wine corks doesn’t count.”

Crap. She had me. I had to think for a bit. I had to go waaay back. “In college, I made a sculpture with melted wax. It was mixed media. And very avant-guarde.”

“You’re lying.”

“Am not.”

“Picture or it didn’t happen.”

So, later that day, I sent her the following picture with the words, “In your face, bitch.”

Later that night, I started to really think about my crafty side. And I put together a mental list of the artsy and crafty shit I’ve done. I mean, I’m not going to start my own DIY Show (unless it’s about making drinks), and I’m probably not going to make any non-sarcastic craft boards on Pinterest any time soon. But I’m crafty. I’m handy. I can do shit.

And I’ve got the data to support those statements.

Household Décor: I designed this arrangement myself. And color coordinated it. And used a drill to install it without any help from anyone.

Christmas Décor: Hey. It took a lot of measuring and cutting and shit to get that dental floss the right length. And, again, it’s color coordinated.

Wall Décor:  I tried to hang a picture. Okay, this may be a non-example. But I patched that up and rehung the picture ALL BY MYSELF. And now you can’t even see the hole. (That’s what she said.)

Recycled Art: What do YOU do with the fur that comes out of your dog after a grooming session? I make beautiful dog fur art, of course. Best thing about this art piece? It’s interactive and can be made into any shape. And then vacuumed up.

Ink Drawings: Look at this beautiful artwork. I sent it to my graphic designer, and it inspired her to design my beautiful header graphic at the top of this blog. Clearly, she couldn’t have done it without me. Clearly.

Food Crafts: You saw these right? (Now I’m adding Pastry Chef to my resume.) The first craft was almost too pretty to eat. But I ate it anyways. Times five.

I didn’t make this cake, but I made the beautiful, inspired cake-top decorations.

Body Art: One night, I noticed an interesting constellation of freckles. So, of course, I had to connect them. OF COURSE I DID.

Gratuitous Cork Collection: I threw this one in just for Nicole. Look at this beautiful collection. And the bow perfectly compliments the corks.

See how crafty I am? I mean, do I really need to present any more evidence? I think not. In fact, I rest my case. Now I’m off to try painting with wine (the wine is recycled from a spill on the table).

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Homemade shamrock-shaped, multi-layered, green-goo-filled cupcakes? Bell pepper stamps? Clay pot leprechauns? Homemade Blarney stones? Really?

I mean, I love the Irish as much as the next person. Heck, I even married an Irishman. But this holiday has gotten completely out of hand. Can’t we all just agree to drink some Guinness and pinch whomever is not wearing green and be done with it? Because, on top of all the other crap I have to do today, that’s about all I can handle.

And it’s Monday, dammit. I’m tired.

So if you’ve memorized “100 St. Patrick’s Day Traditions, Crafts, and Treats” and are making elaborate St. Patrick’s-themed crafts and eco-friendly, green-colored, shamrock-shaped snacks, I’m not sure we can be friends. Because—and I ask this with all sincerity—who has time for that shit?

Possibly I’ll compromise by serving Lucky Charms (all meals) and putting some green food coloring in the milk and the toilet. (Leprechauns pee green, you know.)

But then I’m going straight to the Guinness. Care to join me?

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We’re doing some de-cluttering in the house, and Erin has finally decided to get rid of all of her Barbie. I was thrilled to hear the news, but then I walked in on this:

I was really tempted to get out an ice pick and stab each one in the head before igniting the whole pile of corpses on fire. But then I remembered these evil dolls might just make some other little girl happy. Or give the girls body issues before eating them. Whatever. At least they’re not in my house.

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I have anosmia. What? You’ve never heard of it? Read about it here. On second thought, don’t do that. If you’re like me, you’ll get so distracted by Wikipedia that you never come back to my blog. So I’ll just tell you: anosmia is the loss of the sense of smell. I don’t have temporary anosmia like some people get with a cold or sinus infection. No, my anosmia is permanent. My sense of smell is completely gone forever; it left me shortly after Colin was born and is never coming back.

Mostly having anosmia stinks. (Ha. See what I did there?) I can’t smell any flowers or freshly bathed skin or bacon frying in the pan. And it’s compromised my sense of taste. It’s been muted. I can taste sweet, sour, and salty, but I can’t taste subtleties. My best example of this is when Dan and I were out to eat at an Italian place. It was the dessert course, and Dan ordered lavender gelato:

Dan: “Wow. This is amazing. It’s creamy, sweet, and tastes like the garden.”

Me: “Huh. Tastes like McDonalds soft serve flavor to me.”

Fortunately for me, there are many flavors I can still taste: red wine, chocolate, salted caramel, anything spicy, BACON. So, the basic food groups.

There are definitely things I don’t miss about having a sense of smell:

• The irresistible urge to take out a whole line of customers and make out with an entire box of Cinnabon.
• The smell of vomit. I mean, I have kids. And a dog. Vomit comes around at least once a month. It’s a lot easier to clean when you can’t smell it.
• The smell of dog shit. Again, I have a dog. And he farts a lot. I don’t smell any of it. At all.
• The smell of rotten produce in the vegetable graveyard in my fridge.

And then there are things about anosmia that I kinda, sorta love:

• “Huh? No, I didn’t fart. Why, does it smell like one? Must have been Colin.”
• Grossing people out with stories of disgusting tasks I’ve done completely unaffected by horrid smells.
• “Dan, smell this (shoving a questionable food item in his face). Is this bad?”

So how did I lose it? Well, it wasn’t a broken nose, or a nose job, or anything exciting like that. Nearest the ENT can tell, I lost it due to nerve damage from a really bad sinus infection. While this may sound boring, they also ruled out (via cat scans and MRIs with and without contrast): a brain tumor, early onset of Parkinson’s disease, and Multiple Sclerosis. So honestly, I think I’ll take it.

If you think about it, it’s like I have a super power. I am… Anosmia Woman.

Now I just have to figure out how to turn this into something amazing—besides being oblivious to my own armpit stink. I’m thinking back to the (really old) Adventures of Superman TV series. I could totally have my own television show. Except I’d have to redo the opening (which you know I did):

“The Adventures of Anosmia Woman”

Announcer: Faster than a fresh dog fart! More powerful than the stench of rotten eggs! Able to clean vomit in a single swipe!

Bystanders: “Look there in the bathroom! It’s a robot! It’s a zombie! It’s Anosmia Woman!”

Announcer: “Yes, it’s Anosmia Woman, strange mom from another planet who came to Earth with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal women. Anosmia Woman, who can withstand the smell of freshly baked goodies, clean putrid messes with her bare hands; and who, disguised as Kelly Fox, ill-mannered writer for a great metropolitan blog, fights a never ending battle for clean toilets, fresh air, and the American way.”

Announcer: “And now, another episode in the exciting Adventures of Anosmia Woman.”

…

I totally need my own superhero cape.

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Last night I had a crazy dream in which I was drinking a shit-ton of vodka and directing a very bizarre musical variety show with zombies and gremlins.

Well, one part of the dream was crazy anyway.

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I was recently doing some research for a friend. Kinda random research on obscure German phrases. It’s a long story, really, but during this research I came across a few German phrases that I simply adore. I can’t actually pronounce the words (though I try—mostly when drinking), but I’m in love with the meanings.

• Drachenfutter. A gift that will, literally, feed the dragon. Let’s say you’re a guy and you pissed your wife off. I mean, it’s not that hard to do. You *are* a guy after all. Give her a fabulous gift (something sparkly perhaps?), and it will appease the dragon lady. Fabulous.
• Fremdschamen. To be ashamed or embarrassed for someone else. Let’s say your friend does something monumentally stupid or ridiculous. Fremdschamen is that schrunchy, hurty feeling you get for her/him. Ouch.
• Backpfeifengesicht. A face badly in need of a fist. Or a face that needs to be slapped. This one is pretty self-explanatory. And awesome. I know a few of those faces.

All of these words I get. I mean, I really understand them and embrace them. I have even started using them in my everyday conversations. (Dan’s not as amused as I am.) But I’m really having a hard time with this next word.

• Kummerspeck. Literally means sorrow bacon. It’s that extra bulge (us Americans call it the muffin top but it doesn’t have as deep of a meaning) that you get after eating too much comfort food. Too much bacon = sorrowful bulge on your waist.

Now, I understand comfort food and muffin tops, and I understand the regret of eating too much of something bad for you. But I just can’t put “sorrow” and “bacon” together in the same word. How could I ever be sad about eating bacon? I couldn’t. That’s just impossible. I’d be sad if I got a bulge from eating too many Twinkies or something equally as horrible. But bacon isn’t like that. It’s pure deliciousness from the pig. And the pig is a magical animal.

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Last night in my bed:

Me: “You gonna get up with me and do pilates in the morning?”

Dan: “Sure. If by ‘do pilates’ you mean ‘have a donut.'”

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