What is that smell?!

My house smells. Of something sweetish and sickish, sort of noxious with a faint whiff of what could be a soothing aroma - it's right on the tip of my tongue - it's. Oh. Damn.

Maple syrup.

Not the real stuff, (the kids won't eat that) but Eggo syrup (with 25% less sugar, should anyone be keeping track)....perplexing, as we've strayed away from breakfast for dinner straight into Whatever Falls Out Of The Cupboard - not that our dinner eating habits are really the point. A week passed, without any syrup consumption, no doggie treats baked using syrup, certainly no Random Syrup Sightings. (Obviously we're not including the random sampling of chocolate syrup - an entire food group unto itself, which takes place standing directly in front of the open fridge door. If you're going to eat directly out of the fridge, have some respect. Leave the door open.... But then, everyone does that, right?)

Yet, walking through the front door? One is accosted by the scent of syrup. The Not Quite Right smell of syrup. Kind of nearly rancid syrup. Turning of the stomach overwhelmingly mapely syrup.

In short?

Yuck.

I'd rather my house smell of wet, drooling dog. I know how to combat that. Loads of practice in that department. I've actually considered moving the Dog Couch up here, just to mask the damn syrup odor.... I'm not sure I want those two specific odors fighting for breath in the same space. Lit candles, burned matches, airspray - so far? Nothing doing. Maple syrup lingers in the air with the ferocity of humidity during a Boston summer heatwave - it's oppressive, cloying, sticky.

More frustrating? I can't even find the well-spring of said smell. Wiped down the walls. The cabinet holding all bits of dog toys, mittens, mufflers and scarves, the knewl post got a good passing of the bleach wipe as well.

Still there.

Did the floors. As in, swept, vacuumed, mopped, even had J move the fridge so I could clean under it! kind of floor cleaning. Through the dining room. Wiped down the dining table, again, with windex - top and underside - as sticky fingers on the bottom of glass could I suppose, spread syrup hither and yon. Wiped down leather chairs, door knobs, stair rail - even washed the bottoms of the shoes in the hallway!

Still. Freaking. Smells.

While the exact location escapes me, I can say, it stems from some nebulous place in the hallway. The kitchen doesn't smell funny. Nor the living room, or, thank Christ, my room. Just the hallway. I've managed to avoid actually physically cleaning the stairs in the same fashion as the rest of the hardwood floors for nearly a year now, so perhaps this is simply their way of getting my attention to clean them thoroughly - however, I'm afraid that if I succumb to the call, scrub the stairs and risers clean, the goddamn scent of syrup will prevail, leaving me sweaty for no real reason.

Because really, who looks to judge you by the shining cleanliness of your stairs?

Why scrub that which no one pays attention to now, when one could wait until, say, October? Clearly, other cleaning trumps that any day. Putting clothing away leaps to mind here - though honestly, I'm rather coming to like the self designed, man-made closet in the living room. A hip, modern take on Sheer Laziness. Plus also? I find carrying overstuffed baskets of clothing upstairs exhausting. Yes, I'm admitting I'm so out of shape that a basket of laundry upstairs leaves me nearly hyperventilating. However, I have a plan: Maybe I'll actually meet someone who likes to iron and put clothes away in their rightful places, so I don't have to. Genius idea! I figure, I can do without an extra living room chair for about a year, before it starts to annoy me - easy now, as no big holidays are coming, thus fewer visitors.

Not that I'm inviting guests while the house smells the way it does - especially as Mag's detests the smell of syrup. She visited the other day - I left all the doors and windows open, even as the temp dropped in the late afternoon, freezing out Mag's on the sofa, but I dared not close the doors lest she bolt earlier than I'd anticipated. Really, she's that not fond of the smell of syrup. I can't say as I disagree; unfortunately, I live here, battling the horrendous haunting of Eggo.

It's sad, really. Maple syrup used to evoke visions of mile high stack cakes, big, fluffy waffles, sausages fat and hot from the oven, Sunday mornings with rowdy kids, an open paper, Sunday Morning tv show on, a partially drunk cup of coffee to my left, hair a-mess of something fierce - right now? It's invoking my gag reflex.

I'd rather be overwhelmed at the door by the scent of decaying fruit, the Standing I Forgot To Flush Presents left in the downstairs bath, even dog gas. Pucker Up passes some serious gas. Being near her Business End is not for the faint of heart - she's let quite a few blast away from her lower intestinal tract recently, none of the eye-watering-dry-heave-causing beauties dislodged the strangle hold of maple syrup.

I'm bringing out the Big Guns: Fox's fresh shoes, fresh from his feet, right after a good long sweaty run. I'll leave them, their gangrenous odor wafting out, tendrils as seen on Scooby-Doo rising into the air, withering plants, sending all living beings running for cover - my only thought:

If that doesn't kill it, nothing will.