And that, y'all, is why I'm paranoid about the way my house smells. I'm scared to death that it reeks like the inside of a monkey cage in here and everyone who visits is too polite to tell me. I am constantly scrubbing, freshening, and disinfecting something in this joint, but with the volume of excretion going on, you know (not to mention the regular household smells like dishes and trash and laundry and four little
Anyway, last Friday night Colin's friend invited him to a sleepover. His dad called and said they'd be over to pick Colin up in fifteen minutes, so we scrambled to get his stuff together. I wanted to put it all by the door so that when they came, I could just usher him out with a quick hug and a wave. Mostly because my house looked like this and I didn't want to invite anyone in:
... and that was just the kitchen.
But then Colin couldn't find his coat. (Like ... how do you lose a coat?) And as I descended the stairs to the front entryway, in order to search through the coat rack again, my nostrils burned with a stench so horrible, so permeating, that no air freshener would have touched it. One of the cats had just taken a particularly heinous dump in the litter box, located in the laundry room, which is just steps away from the front door. You can't see the box from the door, but at that moment you could have smelled it from Califreakingfornia.
And before I had the chance to do anything about it, I heard a car pull up in the driveway. OMG. I went into hurry-up-so-they-don't-have-to-come-inside mode.
"Okay well Colin?" tugging him down the stairs, "Your ride is here honey so let's just go don't worry about your coat you can just wear your brother's it fits," struggling to stuff arms in coat sleeves, "here's your bag the toothbrush is in the front pocket don't forget your pillow," shoving overnight gear into his bewildered grasp, "use manners and be on your best behavior I'll be by at about nine in the morning to pick you up I love you son sweet dreams!"
But it was too late. As much as I tried to catapult Colin out the door, we just weren't fast enough. The doorbell rang. And if it had been a balmy spring day I'd have just talked to the dad on the porch but, well, it's February in Iowa. I had to let them in.
As I opened the front door, the rush of cold, fresh air from outside just seemed to accentuate the poo smell. Mortified, I let them in, my internal monologue racing as I made the required small talk. Does he smell it? Surely he smells it. He has to smell it. Should I explain? Like, oh, sorry about the horrible stench, one of my cats forgot to use air freshener, ha ha? No way, I can't explain. That would be so awkward. I should just not say anything about it and hope he hasn't noticed. Oh please just let him not notice. OMG, is he making a face? Does he look kind of disgusted? Is he thinking, "Geez, this house smells like straight-up shit?" Is he going to go home and tell his wife? What if he thinks it's me?
I never could determine if he noticed or not. If he did, it didn't bother him enough to cut the small talk short. But as for myself, I was inwardly cringing the whole time. And the second after they left, I scooped the offending dump out of the cat box, sprinkled some baking soda in the litter, sprayed air freshener, and lit candles. And then sprayed every soft surface in my house with some Febreze.
Hey, no one's ever been accused of smelling too good.
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