Ooo Ooo That Smell

Life literally stinks at my place.

This week at work we received one of those periodic e-mails that C. is going to shoulder the loathsome task of cleaning the communal refrigerator, and we need to remove by end of the day Friday anything we don’t want thrown away. I pushed around ancient yogurt cups, T.’s cans of Fresca, and A.’s leftover Arby’s sandwiches, and found in the back a Rubbermaid container of mine, full of forgotten three-week-old broccoli. I put it in my big, patterned Nine West bag and threw it in the trunk of the car.

After work, I went to a nearby park with a coworker. As we pulled into the muddy parking lot, a foul, gaseous odor assaulted my nose. I assumed it was the mud, since my coworker seems like the kind who would be decent enough to fart after we got into the woods. We took our walk, and after I dropped her off, the car still smelled stinky.

When I arrived home, I opened the boot of the car - and was hit with an eye-watering stench. Rubbermaid had erupted, leaving nauseating green broccoli pee in my bag. I haven’t smelled anything that bad since the turkey vulture and the fox were in the same room at the wildlife rehabilitation center.

I dumped the offensive vegetable remains in the outside trash can. Rubbermaid came inside with me, followed by the stench. I shot a big squirt of Joy into the container and ran the water as hot as it would get. The odor lingered like a visiting in-law. I grabbed the Lysol from the bathroom and sprayed it into the air in every room in the apartment. I wiped out the Nine West bag with a Lysol wipey-sheet-thing. “Crisp Linen” seemed to quell the demon smell.

With the reeking container contained, I turned my attention to kitty, gave her a good scratch, and spooned out some canned Friskies into her bowl. Then I walked into the bedroom to discover two piles of cat yack. With a sigh, I got paper towels and the carpet cleaner and cleaned up the barf.

Within fifteen minutes the cat was yowling under the bed. “Sylvie,” I called. Hopefully I sounded inviting and not pissed off.

“Come here, kitty cat.”
“Yeow-ow-ow.”
“Kitty! Come here, boo-boo.”
“Yee-owwww!”
“Come here, kitty.”
“Hack-a-hack-a-hack-a...blargh-gh-gh-gh-gh.”

I sighed again and went back for more paper towels. I returned to the bedroom. There was Sylvie, sitting in the middle of the floor, looking at me with imploring green eyes. “You never barf in the same place twice, do you?” I asked her.

Under the bed is storage. (Yes, I know it’s bad feng shui and impedes the flow of chi.) I pulled all the boxes and bags out from the under the bed to find the puke pile - thankfully it was not the whole way in the far corner. Pacific Salmon in Sauce is already pretty soft, and after 10 minutes in the cat, it was warm and even more pungent. I practically had to mop it out of the carpet.

As I dumped handfuls of partially digested cat food into the trash I sniffed. The broccoli remained. I re-Lysoled, including the Rubbermaid container this time. I went to my desk and started working. Minutes later, I couldn’t concentrate. I could smell rotten broccoli again. The reek wouldn’t die. I wasn’t going to be able to sleep or do anything. I snapped the lid on the Rubbermaid container, tied a plastic Meijer bag around it, and marched it out of the house. I went back inside. Ah, much better.

Anyone walking into the apartment that night would have expected a séance, judging by the number of Yankee candles burning.

I awoke this morning, patted Sylvie’s silver fur, stretched, and took a deep breath.

Is that a soupçon of Pacific Salmon in Sauce?