The very bane of my existence

Or maybe just my nose's existence.

This picture looks like a pair of perfectly innocent shoes, but let me tell you, it is not. Right now you should thank your God and all other deities that this photo is not four-dimensional, or else you might be gagging at the smell a wee bit.

If there's something smellier than a 13-year-old boy after football practice, I've yet to meet it. A skunk almost destroyed my neighborhood a few nights ago with its noxious fumes, but I sniffed the air slightly and thought, "Nope. Still not as ripe..."

And just to make things worse, Mark leaves these shoes by the couch. My couch. My refuge at the end of the day. My safe, happy place. So when I'm exhausted and just want to veg in front of the TV, I am assaulted by the smells wafting from them.

Something had to be done. I called in the big guns.

That's right, a giant bottle of What Odor? spray, guaranteed to eliminate the most foul fumes around. It was actually invented to kill odor in sneakers, and it works really well. 

I gently grabbed the heel of Mark's shoes, sprayed them down, then repeated. If that didn't kill the smell, I was tossing those puppies out.

I washed the funk off my hands and returned to my couch, pleased with myself. But my joy quickly died when Mark entered the room, sniffing the air dramatically.

"DID YOU JUST SPRAY MY SHOES?" he thundered.

I looked at him in disbelief. I was the victim here--what the heck was he going on about???

"You DID spray my shoes," he accused, hugging his precious, dripping wet sneakers to his chest.

"Yes, I did," I shot back. "You're welcome."

"I didn't want you to spray them!" he whined. "I HATE that smell!"

"You--what?" I asked.

"I hate that smell! What Odor? smells terrible--I can't believe you sprayed my shoes with it!" He stood there, glaring at me.

And this is the part where, as in most Mark stories, I just looked at him and shook my head. Because only in Mark's world is the disinfectant spray more offensive than the deadly taint of smelly, sweaty, disgusting tennis shoes. It's almost like he said, "See that meadow of spring flowers over there? The one just beyond the bakery setting out fresh loaves of bread and cookies? Well, that meadow smells WORSE than the trash dump full of dirty diapers down the street."

"Sorry," I finally told him. "Maybe you don't like the What Odor? smell, but honestly, those shoes made my eyes and nose burn. This odor beats that odor. There's no contest. Now go put those shoes outside!"

He stomped out of the room, then off to bed. And I resumed my place on the couch, which no longer smelled like an entirely family of sickly skunks died there.

And yes, the What Odor? did its job beautifully. I wasn't brave enough to do an up-close smell test, but the room didn't reek when Mark left it, so that is a job well done.

For one of us, at least.