It hit me with my first step in the door.
"It smells in here. What's that smell?" I asked 16-year-old-Boy, just on his way for his morning shower at 4:30 p.m.
"I know, I noticed it too. What is it?" he replied.
"Are you sure it's not...you?" He is, after all, a smelly teenage boy, not yet showered. Did I mention it was almost dinnertime? When he's clean he smells like too much AXE, not the best smell even in moderation, but teenage boys love it. I wish I could convince him that teenage GIRLS are not quite so impressed. Still, I'm glad he's finally trying.
"It's not me!" he protested. In fairness, if it was him, he probably would never have noticed it.
When I was nineteen or twenty and my mom would get in my car, and she'd wrinkle up her nose.
"What is that? Is that B.O.?"
Thanks mom, I love you, too. No wonder I moved out so young. Things like that made me crazy, so the smell at home was making me feel like my mother, a feeling every woman longs for, and I wasn't getting any less crabby.
The unknown smell faded. More likely I was accustomed to it. Downstairs to catch up on some laundry. Back up to the kitchen. Damn! What IS that SMELL?
Garbage can - nearly empty, no smell.
Pantry - full, but no smell. I once forgot about a bag of redskin potatoes in the bottom of my pantry. Until assaulted by the smell. Gas mask territory, but not this time.
Fridge - I don't see anything, but wait a minute...what's dripping? GAAAAAHHH!
In the very back of the bottom shelf of the fridge, completely hidden by all the carryout containers (shut up) is something that was once a wedge of watermelon. Once. Long ago.
Much disinfectant, hot water, and ickiness later, smell is gone.
Except for Eau de 16-year-old-Garcon.
