My husband’s truck smells like mothballs. That’s because there are mothballs in his truck.
I came to know this when Bruce had to come to pick me up at work, as my truck was at the garage. My truck has an intermittent electrical problem causing it not to start everyone once in a while. But it started just fine at the garage, each and every time. I think it likes my mechanic better than it likes me. It misbehaves with me and behaves just fine with him. (Don’t think I don’t notice, either, truck.)
Why now? I ask my truck. I mean, the Cash for Clunkers program came and went and I didn’t even think about trading in my truck. And this is how it repays me?
When I got in my husband’s truck, my nostrils constricted and my eyes started to water. Mothballs. I know why they are there. The last time he took in his truck for work, the mechanic told him there was a mouse living in one of his wheelwells. The mothballs are a critter-prevention measure, moths and mice alike.
Luckily, the temperature had cooled down to a mere 95 degrees and the mothball smell was just a tad overwhelming, instead of overly so.
And in the morning, when Bruce drove me to work, I almost got used to the smell. Unfortunately, the mothball odor permeated my clothes. I don’t know for sure, but I suspect there was even a visual component to me walking down the halls at work: a hazy aura.
I didn’t have to tell anyone about the mothballs, they figured it out for themselves, for those who passed by close enough.
My new cologne? Eau de Ew.