Momnesia

Icky Poo Poo

Scott's cleaning out his car. It smelled so bad on Friday that I refused to ride in it. So he's emptying his trunk, the apparent source of the bunch o' funk. Thirty minutes later, he still hasn't identified it.

"I don't know what it is!" he exclaims, as he wanders back in the living room, arms stuffed with clothing, books, fast-food bags and other assorted items previously located in the car.

"Keep searching," I advise strongly. "Whatever it is... it's leeching life out of my body just from the memory of the stink."

He goes back for more and returns with a grin and a pair of dirty socks. "I don't know what it was, but the smell seems to have gone away some," he says, oblivious to the stink bombs in his hands.

I decide not to press the issue: "Toss those in the laundry basket and I'll get a load started in a few," I say. "And why don't you grab the Oust out of the bathroom cabinet and hose down the car?"

"Why don't YOU..." he sticks his head back in the room with a thoughtful pause. "Just have a great idea?"

He wanders off to clear the air. Thank god. And while he's outside hosing, I put the socks in a plastic bag and dump them in the garbage can outside. It's the next best thing to setting them on fire.