Ever since we got
back from Atlanta, our house has had a strange smell. A bad smell.
I first noticed it
as I carried Paula in when we first arrived; it smelled like that old people smell
you remember from your grandparents' house. Oh, boy, I thought. Either I smell bad
or our house smells bad.
In the morning I
isolated the source as coming mainly from the south-west corner of my kitchen. Every
time I went to the water filter, the dishwasher or the fridge, it was as though
a poop-eating ogre was panting at me. I'm sure it did wonders for my diet.
In the following
days I became obsessed with finding the source of the stink. I thought maybe it
came from some water pooled under our freakishly small countertop dishwasher. So
I moved everything, cleaned everything, stood back and surveyed a much tidier corner
of my kitchen.
I took a deep breath.
Ugh. Still smelled like bad, bad halitosis.
Must be the floor.
I understood that Coco had escaped from the yard at one point. I imagined her cavorting
in other people's garbage, then our wonderful dog-and-house sitter hauling her back.
Of course! The floor stinks because Coco tracked in garbage.
So I mopped the floor,
washed the floor, scrubbed the floor, rinsed the floor. Rinsed the mop, rinsed the
floor again, rinsed the mop again, rinsed the floor again. Mopped the steps, washed
the steps, rinsed the steps. Removed the rug inside the back door. Moved Coco's
dishes and scrubbed - on hands and knees - the corner where she eats, as well as
the cabinet doors in that corner.
I stood back and
surveyed my pristine floor. It still looked dirty because of the awful linoleum
pattern, but it was clean. Really clean. I took a deep breath, and ... blekh. No
improvement.
That night I also
carried Coco to the bathtub and scrubbed her to within an inch of her life. God
bless that dog. She just stood there and took it, at least until I poured water
into her ears. I even used Dial, which I'm sure she just loved. But the smell was
still there in the kitchen when I got back.
The fridge? The glass
shelves gleam; our four hundred condiments are organized by height in neat rows.
Backing soda packets are distributed throughout the fridge and freezer. Yes, I have
moved the fridge away from the wall and checked behind it for dead and decaying
vermin. But I found nothing.
The crate? Joel took
it apart and wiped the whole thing down with those antibacterial and aggressively
orange-scented wipes. He said the things had been good and dirty, and I know he
did a thorough job, but it made no difference. The smell persisted.
The cupboards? I
have stuck my head all the way inside them, inhaling vigorously through my nose.
But no, the air inside there actually smells better than if you just stand in my
kitchen and take a breath. Where the hell is that smell coming from?
Most recently I began
to suspect that for some reason the smell was emerging from my sink drain. I poured
ammonia down there and left it covered, then followed it with enough water to deplete
Lake Michigan until Al Gore's promises come true and the polar ice caps melt. Still,
nothing. Next I'm trying vinegar.
Every time I go into
my kitchen I can still smell the foul odor. The worst part of it is that I fear
that my olfactory receptors are becoming less sensitive to the smell. Like any stimulus,
after too much exposure I am losing awareness of it. Soon I will think the smell
is gone, and my friends will give me pitying looks behind my back. "No,"
they'll say, "let's get together at my house."
So if you hear that
I've torn up my kitchen floor or aimed a flame-thrower under my refrigerator, you'll
know why. If I can't find the source of the smell, we may just have to move.
Posted at:Sat, May 05 2007 09:21:49 AM
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