because I'm terrified they'll keep using it. A while back, Mr. D gave Mr. B and Mr. G an old bottle of cologne, AKA at Chez Green Girl as "Man Juice." Team Testosterone is known for many things, but subtlety is not among them. In their view of the world, if a little is good, more is great! Mr. B and Mr. G embraced this step into manhood with enthusiasm. Hence the fact that my entire house reeks like a freshman men's college dormitory on a Friday night before all the residents head out to troll the bars. The odor of musk and top notes of sandalwood and amber has saturated their pores--and their clothes, their bedding, the floors, even the walls. I imagine this must be what living in a male brothel must smell like.
My nasal passages are burning, my eyes are stinging and my lungs feel tight with the effort to breathe. Before they could unleash more of this WMD, I demanded they hand it over. "Go get it. NOW!"
Mr. B obediently ran upstairs, found the bottle of "Brut Desire Noir" and gave it to me.
"I'm putting this away in a safe place until you're old enough to use it responsibly." Turning on my heel, I strode towards my bathroom to deposit the bottle of Man Juice on a high shelf. When I returned, Mr. B still stood in the living room, his blue eyes wide, his sweet round face troubled.
"Mom, I thought you'd like the smell of Man Juice. Dad says girls like it and you're a girl."
"Oh, buddy. I am a girl, but you're using way too much. Just a single squirt a day is enough. You don't have to marinate in it. Sheesh, kid, you've probably got girls as far away as Texas sniffing the air, wondering where that smell is coming from."
People, it's January. I can't open my windows to air out the house so there's nothing to do for it but let the odors die a natural death with diluted white vinegar and a thorough bed washing. Damn Man Juice. Almost as bad as head lice. (Though not quite.)