Much To My Delight

Much To My Delight


Somethin’ Peed in the Christmas Decor

For a long time, my husband and I rented a basement apartment in Queens. The ceilings were a hair over six feet and the particleboard cabinets had begun to crumble from the edges inward. My closet was in the kitchen and we served appetizers from our bedroom’s dresser drawers during house parties. Lacking adequate space, we stored the overflow in a dank unfinished cave behind the home’s washer and dryer. Most of our possessions back there eventually smelled like mildew, but one cold December day, they reeked of urine.

I don’t like to brag, but I have the greatest sense of smell on God’s green earth. It’s an extraordinary gift when seasoning dinner or saving people from burning buildings, but it’s a real drag when garbage has overstayed its welcome or something’s peed on your Christmas decorations. I’d just stumbled on a box filled with tinsel that smelled like a litter box and it made me feel very unfestive.

christmas decor

I called out to my husband. “Hey Vin! Come sniff these decorations. They smell like pee.”

Vinny thinks I experience olfactory hallucinations because he never smells what I smell, so when he agreed about the urine I knew I wasn’t crazy. It’s nice to have this confirmed now and then.

“Some kind of animal must have gotten down here,” I said.

“Jenn, we’re in Queens. When have you ever seen an animal?” Ummm, did he not remember the rat from last year?

The smell was so strong I began to feel nauseous, and I worried my eyes might never uncross. I wanted to uncover the mystery, but I also needed our Christmas box to spontaneously burst into flames or grow wings and fly itself to the curb.

Vin stroked his beard like an ancient wizard; in times of crisis or uncertainty, he looked to his facial hair as a sort of oracle. Finally he offered, “What if Vito did it?”

Vito was our former landlord, a funny and engaging man with whom we’d always gotten along really well. So when my husband accused the man of marching into his own house and marking his territory like a feral donkey, I thought he was the one hallucinating. It reminded me of the time I heard meowing on the subway and instead of looking for a cat began searching for a person with a bizarre vocal talent.

‘Why would someone pee all over his own property?” I asked.

“Maybe he was working down here and had no other choice. ”  he said.

I’d always admired mens’ ability to relieve themselves at their leisure. The female anatomy made spontaneous evacuation a much more challenging task, with all the hiding and squatting and modesty and whatnot.

I wasn’t ready to rule out a critter, but Vinny was convinced it was human pee, especially after discovering his grandparents’ vintage ornaments were missing.

vintage ornaments

“The ornaments are GONE! You wanna tell me a raccoon came down here and stole them? It had to be a person, Jenn.”

“Let me get this straight,” I debated. “You think our landlord came down here, took a pee in a box, then stole our ornaments?”

“YES.”

I dropped the subject, exhaled, and delivered the stinky box to the trash. Eventually we found the ornaments and ruled out our landlord as primary suspect. We found the mouse droppings an hour later, like tiny lumps of coal. We sang some carols, hung our stockings and toasted with eggnog.

Then we lit a big freaking candle so Christmas could smell like peppermint again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jenn P.

30-something psychotherapist. Loves cooking, hosting parties, exploring new places. Texan by birth. New Yorker by choice. Likes to tell little stories. Pull up a chair; I'll tell you one.

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