You’ve seen these homes. The houses with windows boarded up, grass growing in sidewalk cracks and condemned written in graffiti across the stripped siding. Mamas roll the strollers faster when they reach it on the sidewalk and dogs get antsy if you linger too long.
That’s going to be my house real soon if we don’t figure out what smell is permeating the pores in my kitchen. It’s making the hubs grumpy, the dogs nervous and wrecking my housewife self-esteem.
Even though this problem is not life-changing, we’ve found ourselves going through Kubler-Ross-ish stages with varying degrees of intensity. Stay tuned for the million dollar reward at the end if you have ANY idea what this could be.
Six Stages of Odor Identification
1) Awareness: It was a faint whiff here and a suspicious sniff there that started about a week ago. As the foul odor wafted through the air, it was ethereal, varied and just vague enough to be ignored. Soft accusations were thrown at the dog as well as the fourteen-year-old football player who lives in this house. Attacks on my housekeeping skills didn’t surface until later.
2) Denial: As the smell became worse, feigning ignorance became the M.O. for the household. Just when I was convinced that the body of Dillinger was buried under the kitchen island, Scott would wander over to Area 51 and say, “I don’t really smell it today. ” Then, as soon as I was convinced that it might be gone, Dane would catch a drift and choke out a “OMG…what is that SMELL?”
3) Obsessive Problem-Solving: This is the stage that involved dangerous and toxic chemicals, secret calls to the CDC and my mother in-law. The bleach came out, cupboards were scrubbed, trash bins sanitized and Pinterest concoctions resembling 8th grade science projects were poured down the drains. I even made hubs undo the pipes and traps so I could scrub the twisty turns in the PVC. At one point, BD and I were flat on the floor with our noses up to the half-inch opening under the sink. “I don’t smell anything, do you?”
4) Anger: You knew it was coming, right? Blatant accusations, personal attacks and banishment. And that’s only what was directed at Macy.
5) Stage a cover–up: At this point, we pulled out candles, air freshener and Axe spray from my son’s gym bag. What resulted was a mixed smell of wet dog hair, adolescent hormones and pumpkin spice latte. In fact, it still smells like a singles’ bar when I open up the trash bin.
6) Acceptance: Finally, last night, after an eight-day escapade of angst, bleach and drawer-pulling, we decided that we had to let it go. Whatever it is that has crawled up and died somewhere in our kitchen will eventually lose it’s gamey smell as it moves to the great garbage disposal in the sky.
This morning, the smell seems a little lighter and the urge to vomit didn’t emerge with morning breakfast. Macy appears less guilty and the smelly football player has already left for school.
Maybe if I stay out of the kitchen today, I’ll be able to tell myself that it’s all gonna be all right.
Ah yes. Denial is my favorite stage.
Tell me, friends. WHAT do you think that smell could be and HOW can I get rid of it? Taking all ideas and suggestions. Your check is in the mail.