Weird and Wonderful Wednesday: What's That Smell?

Many times throughout my day holed up in the trenches of Parentville, I find myself asking a question for which I don't especially want an answer. At least not a truthful one. The celebrated query of yore is, of course, "What's that smell?"

In this house, it's anyone's guess. The source of said odor might be entirely predictable, like something hideously past its prime in the fridge, or something in the loo a certain someone forgot to flush or a pool of perfume near the sink "...because we wanted to smell pretty, Mom." Or perhaps the mysterious aroma could have emanated from 16 open cans of Play-Doh (oh my!) or an offensively pithy stick (harvested from the depths of a decaying mass of brindled leafy matter in the back yard) stuffed beneath someone's bed "...because it's my favorite stick, Mom." Or it just could be the sodden sweat socks that were carelessly tossed behind an overstuffed chair a week ago Tuesday following a lengthy romp in the snow, which was then followed by the decidedly ritualistic and joyful shedding and flinging of every stitch of sopping wet clothing within an impressive ten-foot radius of each child-turned-human-icicle.

It's also entirely possible that the wafts of whateverness could be traced to the encrusted mound of cat vomit (the one I meant to get to and subsequently forgot about late last night). Or it could likely be any number of abandoned foodstuffs to include: slightly stiffened marinara sauce, petrified bread sticks, a stony peanut butter sandwich or a slimy, blackish banana peel, tucked ever-so-cleverly under the couch.

Odds are, however, it's just the fresh pile of poo the dog left in the foyer, having conveniently missed the puppy pad, once again.

But not on this day. Instead I followed the curious scent around from room to room, filling my lungs with that which was distinctly pleasant all the while thinking, "That's peculiar. It smells remarkably like lilacs in here and it's February for crissakes. What gives?" Note to self: This is the point at which my little red flag should have been hoisted to the heavens.

I then went downstairs into the living room, where the light, flowery scent that so gladdened my heart before had been replaced with a sickly sweet stench I could barely tolerate. Traces of it hung heavy in the air, permeating nearly every gaseous molecule on the planet.

"Was there a blooming lilac explosion, or what?!" I choked and sputtered to no one--at least no one I could readily see through the cloud of tiny particles now suspended and scattered before me.

Not surprisingly, my heathens had a hand in said devilry.

Of course, they danced the dance, trying like fools to justify their wrongdoing and to sufficiently explain why the entire house reeked of purplish flowers.

"But Mom, she ate a bunch of Doritos and was breeeeeeeathing on me ON PURPOSE! It smelled so horrible!"

"Yeah, but SHE chased me around and around the house and SPRAYED the whole entire can of that flowery stuff from the back of the toilet ON ME! SHE SPRAYED IT RIGHT ON ME, MOM! That was so entirely mean!"

"But you blew your terrible DORITO BREATH right in my face, you breath blower!"

"Can sprayer!"

"Stinky breath!"

"Meanie!"

"Meanie-er!"

And so it continued, ad nauseam.

Planet Mom: It's where I live (still wondering what that smell is). Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and now at www.notesfromplanetmom.blogspot.com, too.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel