I don’t know if I watch the wrong kinds of shows on TV (mostly just Trading Spaces…when I can), or if I’ve spotted an actual trend out there, but there seems to be a whole lot more interest in air fresheners than I had ever imagined. It seems like every other commercial is for some spray, fan, heated oil, or candle that will whisk away those offensive odors.
I’m starting to feel a little self-conscious. What are they trying to say about my smell, anyhow?
There’s this one commercial, in which a woman stands, observing her air freshener, which is plugged into the electrical outlet in the wall. This clearly displeases the woman, who wants the air freshened over HERE, by the coffee table. She proceeds to YANK the outlet out of the wall, ripping electrical cords through the drywall, tearing down parts of the ceiling, so she can move the little freshening unit to the middle of the room. A man comes along (one assumes he’s her husband, although the more I think about it, the more I suspect she’s just some woman he picked up at a party, where she strode across the room, fixed him with an intense gaze, and proclaimed her intent to own his soul, and since he was just SO DRUNK it sounded like a good idea at the time, but NOW? With a hangover? It’s beginning to look like she’s just kind of psycho and he’s wondering how he’s going to get her to leave and what did she say her name was anyway?), and he watches her tearing up the house in horror. Next comes a shot of her, enjoying the NEW PRODUCT, a battery powered air freshening unit, that can be moved anywhere at will. He’s patching the damage to the wall (and pondering restraining orders, I’m sure), and shaking his head.
Ok, two things. First of all, that woman? Needs to stop listening to the voices in her head, because they are not her friends. And secondly – what the heck? I mean, isn’t the air freshener thingy supposed to spew its smell a good distance? How far can you get in any house from an electrical outlet at any time? HOW IMPORTANT CAN THIS BE? Maybe I just don’t understand what these things actually do. Maybe “freshens the air” is code for “gives you a high that makes OxyContin look like baby aspirin.”
Personally? I don’t actually USE air fresheners. My house smells like…I’m embarrassed to admit this…a house.
One with three kids, a dog, a cat, three adults, and a large collection of Power Ranger toys. After bath time, the house smells like soapy-clean boys and lotion. Before dinner it smells like food. Sometimes it smells like flowers (if there are actual flowers in here), and sometimes Mom bakes bread and it smells like heaven.
And yes, occasionally it smells like damp dog, or sweaty boy feet. But who has time to spray masking odors in the air when I need to wash the dog or order Tre into the shower? Honestly, to make my house smell like Meadow Rain would probably require a pact with the devil. It just doesn’t seem worth it. I mean…not that I have something else in mind that WOULD be worth it…heh, heh. HI, FATHER PHIL!
Well, the whole air freshener mystery is just one more example of how I’m not a real woman. My cousin Melyssa (who is more interesting by far than a “real woman”) has this theory that some of us women are real women, while the rest of us are amateurs. Real women carry compacts in their purses. They generally have lipstick on, and just KNOW the proper way to wash a bra.
I am NOT a real woman, I am an amateur. I will never understand compacts or maintain my lipstick properly, and the deep need for air fresheners eludes me.
It could be worse. I could have violent reactions to the placement of an air freshener.
Ok, before I let you go, I have to tell you two stories from my day. Totally apropos of nothing, deal with it.
This afternoon Raphael hit Max over some offense or another, and was sent to serve time on the couch. As he stomped out of the room he muttered sullenly, “Max called me a BAD BOY.” Max, who was playing quietly on the floor, looked up, DEEPLY OFFENDED.
“I DID NOT,” he declared, “I never – EVER - called him a bad boy. Today.”
Tonight, after a long and arduous bedtime, I went into Max and Raphi’s room to see if they had ever indeed gone to sleep. They had, and Raphi was turned completely around and sleeping with his head hanging off the foot of his bed. These sorts of gymnastics are not unusual for him. I picked him up to reposition him, and he stirred and muttered something. I put him down on his pillow, and he muttered again. “Ah have an octopus in me.”
His fingers were feebly working at the zipper to his jammies.
“Dere is an octopus.”
I helped him unzip his jammies, and sure enough, plastered to his belly, was an orange plastic octopus. I removed it and zipped him back up.
“Hey, Honey? Don’t put octopuses in your jammies anymore, ok?”
He nodded and grinned.
“But dat WAS funny.”
Well. I have nothing to add to that.