One of my tenants has a very sensitive nose. She is constantly alerting me to smells. Smoke smells that are wafting up from the bottom floor to her top floor apartment. Powerful odors that seep in under her door and into her nostrils. I call her the Smell Lady. It’s a very original and unique name, dontcha think?
The other day she knocked on my door to tell me that there was a pungent smell taking over the building. She wanted me to come smell it right that instant. I closed the door politely, grumbled to The Fella and scrambled to put a bra on. She walked with me down the hallway saying, “I don’t know why we have to live like this!” as if “this”- the smell of other people living their lives in their own apartments- was just too much to bear. Lady, give me a break.
When I got to the top of the stairs I took a big whiff and looked at her. “It’s sage,” I told her emphatically. “It smells deceptively like pot but it’s not, in fact, pot.” (This time.) You know, sage, the stuff people burn to cover up that they are smoking weed (um, not that I would know anything about that, ahem) or to clear bad energy from their homes borrowing from the Native American ritual. She huffed off upstairs. I wouldn’t be surprised if she puts in her notice. Make that, I’d appreciate it if she would put in her notice. She’s a very nice woman but she’s a bit of a pain in my ass.
I accidentally discovered just the other day that burnt lentils smell a lot like marijuana when I attempted to, unsuccessfully, cook them.
So there I am in my apartment, with a pot of burnt lentils and an apartment reeking of. . .well, pot. I texted The Fella telling him that I am now concerned the Smell Lady will grab a hold of this odor and come a knocking. His reply was something like, “And she’ll know why you never do anything about the smell- because you’re a pothead. Make that a lentilhead.”
It’s true. I’m a former pothead turned lentilhead. And I can’t do much to make people stop making smells in their apartment.