Save Me, San Francisco

There are several smells that I find to be an assault to my nature. Olives, along with their slimy existence, stink. They also take up an entire section of my local grocer. Why? Because apparently some people like them. I’ve also learned that some of those people are my friends. That is a situation that may need some remedy.

Other smells? Oh . . . let’s see.

Hard working man. Now there is a smell that doesn’t bother me one bit. If he, or she (if that’s your life) walks in after a day of manual labor and being awesome and smells like sweat and accomplishment, hold the door for them and give them some love. That is a smell that rarely gets old.

Salmon. Yup, it gets its own sentence. Purely because it shouldn’t be anywhere near other words that I associate with my native language. I can’t stand it! Not only does it taste nasty, it is one of the worst smelling fish when it is being prepared.

There is only one other smell that truly gets on my nerves and has, on occasion, led me to desperate measures: teenage feet. There are not words yet formed to describe the absolute hell I lived in while my older loves were still living at home. I have never smelled anything so foul, assaulting, stagnate, or permeating in my life. To give it a reference, allow me to share an occurrence of the levels to which feet can cause delirium.

My love, Ari, counting her “piggies”.  She inherited the stinky feet curse from her lovable mama.

We lived in a town home. My ex-husband, our daughters (16 and 9), and our son (15). Many days came and went without us knowing exactly who was walking around with “Frito” feet, so I just blamed everyone. One morning it was everywhere. I sat in my chair, it smelled like feet. I laid on the couch, it smelled like feet. I stood in the kitchen, IT SMELLED LIKE FEET!!!! I went to the bathroom, and oh my word, it smelled like FEET!

Enough was enough. Insanity kicked in and I was on the verge of being homicidal if I didn’t cure this nastiness soon and very soon, or I would be going to see the king! I rounded up the natives and we had to find the culprit. I knew that ground zero was the garage. But this particular foot smell had an extra spin on it. As I contemplated how to extract it, I honed in on the fact that the special seasoning to this one was most certainly a dead animal. It probably suffocated due to attempted bedding in a shoe or something.

Off to the garage we went. We moved everything. And just so you know, I’m a junior level hoarder. We emptied the loft, the freezer, every kid toy, tub, drawer, and vehicle out of the garage. I should also mention this was at 8am on a Saturday (hehehe). As we neared the end of this little adventure, my older daughter said “Mom, its my shoes”. My reply was simply a rebuff because this had gone beyond the usual foot smell. No way this was a shoe that I encountered on every other day. Oh no, this smell was EXTRAordinary. It had been sauced, baked, mummified, twice baked, drenched in vinegar, and then sat out in the Vegas sun for about 48 hours. Then and only then would one of the kid’s shoes be even remotely as devastating to my senses as the current situation.

Well, after everything had been cleaned and moved out, the only thing that remained was the shoe pile. Low and behold . . . the smell led me straight to the jungle. The cooked booty and petrified funk that was this putrid stench was in, around, or near the forbidden shoe stack. My daughter was right. She had somehow managed to elevate her stink game and had prepared for us a nice dish of rot disguised as a shoe that wasn’t even a month old. Needless to say, those shoes received the stamp of disapproval and were banished to the dumpster 200 yards away and in my opinion, that wasn’t nearly far enough.

Have you ever been in jail? I have. There is moment in which you realize there is nothing you can do but wait it out. The uncomfortable feeling becomes your friend and you just make do. Well, that is the same feeling I have become accustomed to when I am faced with a smell that permeates every square inch of my life. A person’s breath, its like being in a cell. I can’t escape it! And of course, feet . . . I am a prisoner in my own home with this one. That is why I created the “process”. It has never failed to give at least two days of relief and it’s required of anyone that has, on occasion, assaulted me with their foot smell. Take note, this recipe, and required actions, will help!

  • First . . . wash all bedding, pillows, blankets, etc. that have come in contact with the feet.
  • Second . . . strap the person down.
  • Third . . . get a basin, fill it with hot water.
  • Fourth . . . mix in “man” body wash, I prefer Axe or Irish Spring, Dawn dish soap, and Listerine.
  • Fifth . . . insert the animals, ahem, feet and soak them for 5 minutes.
  • Sixth . . . grab a foot scrub that has exfoliating dirt in it. Scrub the living hell out of the feet! I use a Dead Sea Salt scrub. Make sure you get between the towels and up to the ankle.
  • Seventh . . . Rinse in the soaking water and then scrub the feet again with the water mixture.
  • Eighth . . . Towel dry and apply a moisturizing lotion.

This process should leave you with a pleasant, unassaulting, life experience for at least 2-3 days. If there is still a lingering problem, do this daily as there may be layers of funk you have yet to address.

Happy feeting and thanks for stopping in and listening to one of the many situations I deal with daily.

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