This past week, it hit me with the one, two punch.

In the early morning, I opened the sliding glass door at home and a faint, foul odor hit me like a left jab.

Later in the day, as I walked to my car to head to work, I was hit with the coupe de grace - the overpowering stench of freshly spread fertilizer. A quick glance across the street and the blow to my nose was confirmed with the sight of the fertilizer spreader over the hilltop.

Yes, spring must be approaching.

Now, overall, this rural smell is nothing new. Besides the first year when I moved into the boonies just outside of Salem, I've come to expect the normal procedures of getting the land ready for the summer's crops. At the same time, I cannot get used to it. Looking up and down the street, it seems like I'm the only one affected by the powerful blast of cow manure.

There's like hundreds of acres of manure out there, yet it seems I'm the only one bothered.

In that instance, it really shows I'm just a city kid living in the rural life.

Now, I hope I'm not as worse as Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie trying to "adjust" in their past reality show, "The Simple Life," but once I begin to think about things, I don't think I'm too far off.

First off, my political views really sets me apart from the masses. If you took a poll among my friends (and, of course, my friend's friends since everyone knows everyone in the small towns) and asked them to point-out the left-wing crazy, fingers would be in my direction. The ribbing my girlfriend and I took during the time we had an Obama sign in our front yard would not cease. At the moment, you won't find me throwing in my two cents regarding gun control or, in general, politics. I think I'm outnumbered.

If it wasn't easiest enough to point me out in a neighborhood crowd, it seems I'm the only person within a 25 mile radius that does not own a pickup truck. The status-quo seems to be owning one, nice pickup truck and at least one other "work truck."

Let's play a game. I'll name off vehicles seen in my neighbor and you guess which two are parked in my driveway: Ford F-150, Chevy Silverado, Dodge Ram, 4-door Pontiac Grand Am, Chrysler PT Cruiser, Ford Super Duty and a GM 3500-series. Tough choices, right?

Like I mentioned before, it's a small town, so if I'm out sitting on my porch, the next day I might hear someone at the local grocery store, say something like, "Hey, saw you were outside yesterday, why did your mower torn apart?" Everyone seems to know the happenings of everyone.

I wonder then what passersby think, especially my close neighbors, when they see me burning the midnight-oil so-to-speak at times of 1-4 a.m. in the morning. Usually after work, I'll grab a bite to eat and then if nothing is good on television, I'll hit up the Nintendo Wii.

Can you image what someone must think if they saw me singing in a microphone, playing a plastic guitar, or dancing on a Dance, Dance, Revolution pad in my home? I must come off as a freak!

I'm also amused at how much of a chump I am compared to others around town. Sitting at the local watering hole, we trade stories about the day and see how life is treating each of us.

"So, David, how was your day?" Well, man, I had a rough day. I had like three meeting so I had to, like, take notes .... and then write a story later ... and pick-up ... police reports.

As I talk about my day, I must come off as a big sissy compared to the men who do "work" work all day long. I might as well be holding a wine cooler as I tell my story.

But I do love the area where I call home. Even if I'm a weirdo, everyone treats me well. I can't even begin to count the good deeds people have done to help me out throughout the past several years. And when it's all said and done, we're one big family - even if I'm the liberal hippie who doesn't know a lick about farming.

And I'm sure there's many other ways I stand out and amuse people. But those stories are best told by my great friends and neighbors. Hopefully they're never on a reality show explaining such characteristics.

(David M. Grimes is a reporter for The Review, covering the townships of Liverpool and St. Clair. Reach him at dgrimes@reviewonline.com)