The weirdest dag-gummed thing happened to me this morning, Reader. The morning started out as a normal Manic-Monday does, with a quickie shower, zero time for coffee at home just a to-go-cup thank you, feed the cats, grab some semblance of the makings of a lunch and hit the bricks.
It was clipping along just fine.
And then I got in my car, the one that just had $580 worth of window repairage, and I smelled poo. I’m talking a strong strong oder of the “Someone Must Have Shit In the Car!” ilk. And naturally, because I have a blamer-personality, my first thought was that one of the mechanics who worked on the car played a little “trick” on ol’ Trixie and left a giant shadoobie somewhere in there to cook and fester over time.
I actually thought that, Reader. That a professional auto service place just may have taken a shit and left it in my car. I don’t know why I thought they would target me, I was certainly pleasant and grateful. But I thought just maybe. To the extent that I started checking under the seats and opened the trunk.
There was no giant pile of poo anywhere in the car, yet the smell persisted for my entire drive into Even Tinier Town.
It sort of felt like it hung on me after I got out of the car, and trailed me into the building.
I kept sniffing myself all the while trying not to look like a weird self-sniffer, but I was walking and thought that surely one of the cats who love me very much must have pooped in my pants leg or in my shoe (I had already checked the bottom of my shoe) or on my shirt or in my bra – SOMETHING. Something had to have happened because the smell of poop was strong, My Friend.
I cautiously walked into my office, testing the waters to see if anyone jumped out of their seat and yelled, “Who Smells Like POOP!??” and when that didn’t happen I smiled and engaged in post-weekend convo and tried to get busy, all la-de-lah-ing with “devil-may-care, nothing-to-sniff here, Folks” attitude.
In the meantime, I sent a text to My Mister at home, and asked him if he happened to notice if I smelled like someone dropped it like it was hot on me this morning. After he gathered his thoughts from that good morning text, he assured me I smelled a-okay, but then advised me that maybe I should go to the restroom and check for damage. I wasn’t really sure I could trust his sniffer, though, because he never seems to be able to smell when the litter boxes need cleaned. I think he has selective sniffing ability.
However, Reader. Imma not lying when I tell you this part.
I took his advice. I went to our restroom and completely got undressed in a stall, all the while sniffing every piece of clothing, inside and out. Reader. I even checked in my undies on the off-chance I had pooped my very own pants and have somehow temporarily lost feeling in my lower half and didn’t even know I had shat. My undies were clean, thank goodness, or I’d have more problems than what we’re talking about right here. After all that sniffing, I could still smell a trace of the offensive shadoobie smell lingering somewhere…but after all that, I was unable to pinpoint the culprit. The only slightly offensive oder came from inside my shoes, but that was just a normal hot-foot smell, and it was faint at that because the shoes are newish.
So I wasn’t able to pinpoint the root of the maliferous odor, despite a through sniff-test, both inside the car and on my person.
The smell in my car was gone by the time I drove home from work, and I haven’t caught an offensive whiff since.
There you have it. This morning I was haunted by a shit-smelling ghost. It’s not a far-fetched statement at all, Reader. Last week I paid $112 hard-earned dollars for a ticket to see Theresa Caputo live and lemme tell you, it was a good time, but now I’m fairly certain that’s where I picked up a ghost who haunts me with shit-smells. Because of course I would. I never get the ghost who wants to come home and tidy up the place for me.
And I took off all my clothes at work.
I’d consider that a pretty typical Monday in the life of Trixie Bang Bang.