Call Me Hormel.

Some years ago -- I don't know how long precisely -- somebody in this house spilled bacon (or at least the grease thereof) onto the dining room floor.

I noticed it when I put the heat gun to the linoleum last fall to pull it up. "Yum," I thought. "Johnny's making bacon for breakfast." Except it was dinner time, and Johnny wasn't home.

I never noticed it before or since, until yesterday. Yesterday, however, it was morning, and this time I knew it wasn't Johnny. So I chalked it up to our next-door neighbor -- even though she has all her windows closed against the air conditioning, and in the three years we've been here I've never smelled her cooking anything before, for any mealtime, ever.

When I smelled it again this morning, I realized what it was. The humidity (98% and counting -- if the air were any thicker, I'd need gills), is pulling all the smells out of everything and hanging them about the house. My fatback floor is emanating.

It was like this the first summer we moved in here, except the smells back then were all cat piss and mold and other assorted funkadelica. At least this time it smells yummy. But even that's kind of disgusting.

Johnny says it's just the ghosties having breakfast.

Which of those ideas is more disturbing?

(P.S. My favorite typo so far this morning: I tried to type "Pinocchio" and it came out "Pinochip." Pinochip: A controversial South American leader made entirely of wood. Some believe he may have been a puppet.)