The Olfactory Nerve Workout

It's not even a pretty moth. 

 

I won't bore you with belabor the issue of house hunting much longer.  I know you're all sick of it, as am I.  This entire act of going through the motions to find a house is a waste of time.  You see, my mind is made up and you know, and I know, the noisy house with all of the charm will win the race.  In a futile attempt to make the hunt look good, I saw another house Monday afternoon that was a major disappointment.  The bedrooms were large(r) this time, but the communal spaces were itty-bitty.  There were no porches, not much of a backyard and no space in which to seek solitude when feeling hormonal.  I need space.

The miniature size of the home wasn't what I noticed first, it was the odor. I couldn't quite distinguish what I was smelling.  I kept asking the agent, "what is that smell?"  "God, what is that?"  I think it was a mixture of poop, cat pee and mothballs, or maybe someone died there and was forgotten for awhile.  It stunk.  Of all the aromas, it was the mothballs that worried me most.  If it wasn't already off the list for lack of legroom, the threat of moths eating their way through my stash was a deal breaker.

On my way home from seeing the stinky house, I recuperated by stopping off at my favorite yarn store.  The smell of wool has incredible healing powers for me.  When I told the owners where my dream house was, their response was, "hey, you could walk here."  And yes, I fell off the wagon, but only a little bit.  I don't feel badly though, I consider this to be my financial obligation to healing Metro-Detroit's economy-one skein at a time.  OK, four.  So sue me...