So, as most of you know, I moved. (And if you didn't get my new address off that MySpace bulletin, email me.) And while boxing and schlepping and unboxing and finding the place to put the thing is all kinds of unsettling, what is really keeping me feeling discombobulated is the smell in the apartment.
No. It's not a bad smell. It's just not my smell. I don't really know what my smell is as you really can't smell yourself. (That is, as long as you shower.) But houses absorb the smell of the people in it. Becky Cawley once told me back in high school that the house on Jennings Road sorta smelled like wood. I remember my friend Kristen's house smelled like fried onions. And my great-grandmother's house always smelled like wet laundry. Don't know why. The girl who occupied the bedroom before me? Her smell is boiled macaroni. It's really prevelent in the walk-in closet. And I'm pretty sure someone smoked in our bathroom on Friday night. (For shame!) I figured if I gave it sometime, my own smell would start taking over, but since it wasn't happening fast enough, I pulled out one of my candles on Sunday. It's a Pier One special that I got on sale around Thanksgiving. It's, like, apple cider or something, and I bought it to cover the weird smells that would sometimes pervade my apartment on Western Avenue. Anyway, I opened up the closet doors, put the candle in the middle of the floor and lit it. A few hours later -- after watching three episodes of Mad Men (love it! Can't wait for July!) -- I went back into the closet and...nothing. I couldn't smell a thing. Not the boiled macaroni, not even the apple cider candle. Which must mean, it smells more like me now. Amazing how that one little thing can make all the difference between being a visitor and being home.
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