Thursday, January 24, 2013
"What, what's happening?"
"What's that smell?"
"I don't know. Let me sleep."
"It smells like... kinda like, Ben-Gay and bacon. Is your mom frying bacon in Ben-Gay?"
In sixteen years Mark and I have only spent one night at my mother's house, and every time I mention that maybe we could stay there overnight again, Mark brings up the Ben-Gay and bacon story. It turns out that Mark was smelling Ben-Gay and bacon that morning. The Ben-Gay was slathered on my mom's aching muscles, and the bacon was sizzling in a frying pan along with some eggs. Like the nice guy he can be, Mark choked down the eggs, thanked my mom, and then went outside to get some fresh air. He may have puked behind the bushes too, but since I wasn't out there with him I can't be sure. It turns out that Mark can't stand the odor of Ben-Gay, and hates his eggs fried in bacon fat.
Cut to this morning. I awaken early to a searing pain in my back, just above my left ass cheek. I struggle to put on my shoes and walk the dogs. The further I get along in the walk, the more I realize my back is not right. So, I put the dogs back in the house, sneak out in the car to the drug store, and buy some Icy Hot patches. You know, the ones that Shaquille O'Neal advertises. When I get home I paste one of the patches to my back, and notice that it smells just like Ben-Gay. After putting on the patch I go into the kitchen and start making breakfast. I throw four strips of bacon into a frying pan, and start the eggs. Two minutes later Mark comes into the kitchen, all bleary eyed.
"Is your mom here?"