Yankee Candle

It is opening day for the Red Sox.

I am trying to sneak into my room for a nap while everyone else sits in the living room.  I have done three loads of laundry, bought dance recital hair stuff, and McDonald's as a treat.  I have made one business call. I deserve to hide.

Before I get a chance to hide, I hear my husband's arm chair crackle.  He is getting up out of it.

I hear my husband say "Let me go to the bathroom, honey."

And my daughter slides off his lap.

Quiet.

Then a resounding voice.

"Smell Daddy's chair!  Smell Daddys chair!"

I fall for it.

I lean in and take a sniff.

I think I thought she meant it would smell like fries and nuggets.  Or that cinnamon Yankee candle that has lasted forever.  I don't know.

But it doesn't.

I lean in and take a sniff and it is horrible and noxious and I start yelling and my daughter is delighted and my daughter says "See!"

It was not that candle smell at all.

And sure, women don't always smell like roses.  But we sure as hell do not smell like that unless we've locked the bathroom door.  And used that Yankee Candle.