Off with her head! ⁷

My latest addiction via Netflix on Demand has been Season One of Showtime’s The Tudors. The saga chronicles all of the drama and scandal surrounding the early years of King Henry VIII, including his controversial divorce from Queen Catherine of Aragon as a result of his affair with Lady Anne Boleyn.

The show has certainly sparked my curiosity in the history of Great Britain’s royal monarchy. Yet after much research, I can’t seem to get over a blatant historical discrepancy that Showtime seems to completely overlook:

Jonathan Rhys Meyers as King Henry VIII, is a million times more attractive than the real King Henry VIII.

Props to the casting director on that one.

I also can’t get over the fact that…well….King Henry was kind of a jackhole of epic proportions.

Apparently, not much has changed over the years. While I certainly wouldn’t call the current King a “jackhole”, I’m not afraid to admit that he’s been a royal pain in my behind as of late.

Naturally, I’m referring to  The King of Composting, also known as my husband Scott.

“I hope you realize that when Jolie dies, we’re totally composting her.”

I thought things were bad when Scott forced me to get rid of my beloved Tassimo single cup coffee brewer simply because the coffee pods weren’t compostable or recyclable.

Little did I know that banishing my beloved coffee maker was just the tip of the iceberg.

A few months ago, Scott purchased a special composting bin that fits under our kitchen sink from Amazon. It’s the perfect size for two people, and successfully contains all of our compost with an airtight seal that prevents it from smelling, or attracting bugs and insects. As a loyal subject of the Composting King, I’ve been filling said bin quite diligently– I feel it is my duty to the monarchy as the involuntary Queen of Composting.

Two weeks ago, on his way to discard a banana peel, I heard the King gasp. Running into the kitchen to see what on earth could be the matter, I found him staring with pride at his green bin of nutrients.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Mold. Our compost is starting to mold.”  His delight and self-admiration were as palpable as the stench wafting up from the compost. I peeked into the bin, and sure enough, a thick layer of grey fuzz had covered the entire top of the pile, which filled about half of the bin.

“That stinks.” I observed, “You should probably take it out tonight.”

“Yeah,” he replied “I will. I just have to wait until dusk.”

In case you’ve forgotten, we live in a complex of condominiums, and don’t have an actual yard where we can legally compost. To solve for this issue, the King sneaks out in the night, dumping our festering pile of fertilizer in a nearby field while hidden by the cloak of darkness. So far, no one has noticed or complained.

I’d forgotten about the entire incident until last night, when Scott’s dad was over for supper. Just as he was about to leave, Scott asked if he would mind taking our compost home with him and adding it to his pile.

“Sure, I don’t mind.” he casually shrugged.

I am absolutely certain his answer would have differed had he actually had the chance to smell the material before offering his response. The moment Scott opened the bin to transport its contents into a large trash bag, it became abundantly clear that the King had left the moldy bowels of the compost bin to putrefy, instead of dumping them outside.

His excuse?

“I was worried the horses would eat it.”

It’s true — the field behind our place recently became home to two beautiful stallions. While watching them from the window while I work has been lovely, I must hold them partially responsible for the nuclear waste that, unbeknownst to me, was allowed to rot in my kitchen. I wouldn’t be surprised if at this point, inhaling the fumes from the stuff has given me cancer.

Stupid cancer horses.

Up until this week, the most foul scent I have ever encountered emerged from the stomach of a college friend who unintentionally puked up a full order of spicy chicken wings from Hooters. This all went down in a sketchy Omaha parking lot, which I’m pretty sure made things smell ten times worse than they would have in a more classy locale. (Seriously, what is it with me and parking lots?!) The entire experience was vile, pungent, and of course, delightfully unrefined.

It took all of eight years, but last night, I finally came face to face with an odor even more offensive than the half-digested chicken wings of 2004. Scott’s compost smelled like death. No. It smelled worse than death. He emptied as much as possible into a plastic trash bag, before handing it to his dad and urging him to “just keep it in the trunk until you can dump it.”

Unfortunately, there was still a good two inches of rotting sludge cemented to the bottom of the bin. I interpreted this as a stubborn act of smelly resistance on behalf of the compost pile that is quite literally out to get me — coffee maker and all. Scott stared at the residue for a good two minutes before ultimately choosing to give his precious compost bin a bath.

In our bathtub.

He then opted to ride his bike to the gym and swim for an hour without actually cleaning said bathtub.

Fortunately, the King had the good sense to use the tub in our guest bathroom. After what I witnessed, I’m pretty sure I’ll never be able to shower in the cistern that has been forever tainted by fungus and decomposing egg shells ever again. I don’t even want to think about what would have happened if he had decided to use the master bathroom for the procedure.

To his credit, he gave the guest tub a thorough scrubbing as soon as he returned home.

Unfortunately, this small act of redemption was cancelled out by the fact that he thought washing the still soiled compost bin in the dishwasher, with the rest of our dishes, would be an acceptable solution.

When I went to unload the dishwasher this morning, I was overcome by the all too familiar scent of homemade fertilizer. Upon further examination, I discovered a sparkling clean compost bin, surrounded by dozens of dishes and silverware that were covered with a thick film of what I’m assuming to be a mixture of leftover compost and dish detergent.

These are the type of shenanigans that I am not okay with. If you can’t compost responsibly, then you shouldn’t have the right to compost at all.

I’m beginning to understand how Queen Catherine must have felt nearly five hundred years ago when her betrothed committed the ultimate act of betrayal–leaving her for another woman. It’s as if Scott is King Henry VIII, and this Godforsaken compost bin is a more smelly, eco-friendly version of Mistress Anne Boleyn. She’s captured my husband’s attention, and is slowly taking over my household, one batch of rancid vegetables at a time.

That saucy wench even stole my crown.

Yes. I took a photo of the compost bin wearing my 2002 Daffodil Princess tiara. It’s proof that she’s attempting to usurp me.

Luckily, Anne Boleyn was beheaded at the Tower of London in 1536 after being found guilty of high treason and incest. Basically, I just have to catch Little Miss compost bin talking smack about the husband, or even better, making out with her brother (the trash can). Then, I shall finally have grounds to get rid of her.

Thank goodness history repeats itself, you guys.

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