Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is stuffy. Not stuffy, as in a British aristocrat with a stiff upper lip, or a limousine-riding, bowler-hat-wearing, airs-putting-on sandwich-eater shaking down fellow motorists for some Grey Poupon. No. Stuffy, as in head-clogged.
I blame the #1 son. He is home for the week, spring having sprung in his neck of the college woods, and not-heaven-bent on torturing me within an inch of my breath. Sure, that honeysuckle candle smelled sweet when we first entered the Mansion after a hard day of breathing other people's BO, shoe fumes, and farts. But within ten minutes, the bloom was off the honeysuckle.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has been known to burn a candle or two. In moderation. At Christmas, to lend a hint of pine to the gift-wrapping festivities, what with our artificial tree being a bit of a metal-and-plastic humbug. In the kitchen, to camouflage onions that might be/have been left on the counter for several hours. Or in the bathroom once upon a time, even though her poo is bereft of odor. But never have I ever burned a candle so long that it is wick in liquid, putting out a fog that could make a hipster doofus lose his sense of taste during the Mackinaw peach season if he ran in to pick up a manuscript.
I feel like my head is stuffed with cotton. Like I have 4258 magician hankies knotted end-to-end up in my sinus cavities. Even my old standby, the mini Vicks VapoRub jar balanced on the end of my knobby nose, is not clearing my airway.
How I dread the upper altitude when I ascend from my dark basement lair to sleep. Perchance to breathe.
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