Smells Like Teen Spirit. Or Dog Shit. Whatever.

I got a text from the Hubster last week saying, "I think the dog shit in the laundry room."

I texted back, "Uh, that's usually something that you don't have to think about-- you either see the shit or you slide through it because you missed it."

I smell nothing at all. I've also been paralyzed waiting for you to get 

home and "happen" to walk by the overflowing litterbox, gag audibly,

and clean it yourself.  

I found the exchange unsettling, though, because while my husband is a marvel of nearly anything in the universe, the one thing he is pitiful at is smelling odors.  There was a time, back when we had two cats and two dogs, that I was certain that it was a ploy, a way to get out of litterbox duty.

So if my wonderful, amazing and olfactory-deprived husband smelled dog shit, chances are our house is located on an elephant toilet area in the middle of Turd Island.  I was more than worried about arriving home that night.

Of course, I had no recollection of our conversation by the time I pulled into the driveway 8 hours later, so there was no prep work or last-minute prayers said before breaching the threshold.  I just bust open the door took a deep breath and said, "Hello....ooo. Oh! Dear GOD ALMIGHTY! What died in HERE!?!"

I turned around and slammed the door shut. I looked at my progeny with panic in my eyes. "Children, something has happened. You need to get back in the car. Just get back in the car! Get IN THE CAR!"  Kiddo #1, wide-eyed, picked her brother up with what can only be described as Hulk-like strength, propelled him into the car and got herself inside. It was done so quickly that time seemed to slow down like in Charlie Angels movies.

Or was there just one movie? I forget.

I would have been more impressed with Kiddo #1's hands-free cartwheel back into the car, if I wasn't searching wildly for police line tape and my cell phone. MY CELLIE!  I set it down on the washer just before taking my deep, terrifying breath! GAAAAH!

I looked back at the kids, then at the door. Back to the kids. To the door. I mouthed the words "I got this." and Kiddo #1 screamed "Nooooo!" and put her hand on the window while sobbing. "Noooo Mommy! It's not worth it!"

I took another deep breath, counted to three and re-entered the house. Blinded by the fumes, I fumbled around for my cell.  I felt it, but it bumped around and slid out of my grasp. I exhaled sharply and whined. I had no breath left, still didn't have my phone, and the stink of dog shit had my eyes watering so bad that I couldn't see it even if I tried.  Mercy, MERCY I cried.

I took a sharp breath through my teeth, cried and grabbed the phone.  Perfect.

I already had the iPad in the car, and we are close enough to use our Wifi in the garage.  I set the kids up with Netflix (Thomas The Tank movie) and Tangled (already on the phone) and left them secure in the garage.  I kissed them both, told them I love them, and returned to the scene of the shitty, shitty crime.

I went back in the house to our very confused doggie.

Me: Rizzo, why did you shit in the house?
Rizzo: ???
Me: You never shit in the house. Why did you shit in the house?
Rizzo: ???
Me: You need to (gag) go outside and (gag) go pee.
Rizzo: ??? (jumping and twirling toward the back door)
Me: Don't shit in the house! (shutting the back door)

I put the dog out and began searching for the pile of rotting feces.  I picked up the million shoes that are in the entrance way (also, when did we buy that many shoes? Dear LORD! And when did we ever need hip-waders?!?). Nothing. I picked up the Hello Kitty roller bag, nothing. I moved the dog dishes, slid the bin of ice skates to one side... nothing. So where was the stink of death coming from?

And then, just as quickly as it was there, it was gone again. Suddenly there was no stench at all.  Figuring I would wait until Husband returned home again, I brought the kids back inside. They cheered at my victory over the stench and we all had fruity-ice-pop things and high-fives. Yeah me!

When Husband got home, he also smelled nothing, and assumed our stinky problem had returned from whence it came, I took all the glory for having triumphed over the smell.

Then, the next morning, as I was getting my winter boots on, I got a whiff of the foul odour again.  It was even worse than before. This time it smelled like old deli meat and sweat.  I don't recommend ever doing something so you might smell that stink for yourself, but if you have been there, you've got a body shiver just reliving the idea of it.  For that, I'm sorry.

I winced and pretended I couldn't smell it and left for work silently. Shitty? Yes. Darwinian? Absolutely.

When I got home that night, with the children again, I had totally forgotten about the stink AGAIN.  I walked in, shouted "Hellooooooo Fuuuuuuug!" and turned the kids around again.  They rolled their eyes and looked at each other, pushed past me and went in the house. It was like they thought I was being completely melodramatic!

I went back inside, determined to find Rizzo's indiscretion.  I hunted. I poked, I moved, I sniffed high, low, behind, beside and... in...

With a crash, I dropped the washer lid.  The stink that had been attacking our house was a load of wet, bedding? A load of laundry neither one of us remembered starting; that unholy stench was coming from (once) clean linens? Gagging, I inched the lid open, threw in some leftover cloth diaper soap (non-harsh but super effective on things that not only smelled like shit (like my bedding) but actually had some on it (uh, the diapers, I mean. Not the bedding)) and set the washer to 30-minute soak.  Twice.

And then once more without any soap in it at all. I looked at Rizzo.

Me: Hey, sorry you got the blame for this.
Rizzo: ???
Me: You're a good girlies, you know?
Rizzo: It's about damn time you figured it out. I thought I was gonna have to get the turtle to spin a web that said, "Some Stink" with a frickin' arrow pointing to the washer.
Me: Easy, Rizzo.
Rizzo: Seriously.
Me: Easy.