Was it pregnancy that heightened my sense of smell? I can root out the one poopy child in a room of twenty. I can find that one (okay, maybe two...all right...three!) rotten Tupperware containers at the back of my frig. I can walk into a room and within seconds drop to my knees in search of an accosting odor. (This superpower only seems to have two loopholes: one, all raw meat smells bad to me, and two, I cannot find whatever has crawled into the back of my minivan to die, regardless of two excavations and countless Lysol interventions).
I just wonder why I continue to bring suspicious item after suspicious item under my nose to smell it? If it’s suspicious in the first place, shouldn’t I keep it away from my face? If the underpants MAY smell like pee, isn’t it worth the extra detergent to forgo the sniff test?
You know, I learned this from my mother. But at least I didn’t acquire my father’s talent. The Taster. I know, that sounds much more appealing than The Sniffer, but imagine if you will the following conversation from my youth:
Mom: [smelling the milk] Ralph, will you taste this? It smells bad.
Dad: [Drinking the milk.] Yep. It’s bad.
That’s my dad. Keeping the rest of us safe from the sour milk of the world. Me? I’m just exercising the soiled sheets and cat puke from my house.
It’s a tough job. But somebody’s gotta smell it (hahahaha. Get it? I crack myself up sometimes…)