Something Smells In Here...

I have oft been accused of owning an all too sensitive nose.  Growing up, I tried to become obsolete on refrigerator cleaning day.  "Have Julie smell this.  Julie, has this gone bad yet?"  In college, I stopped drinking the milk because, too many times, the dorm cafeteria's massive crate-contained two percent went warm and stale.
Once, I made my husband put his shoes outside the trailer during a camping trip so I could sleep without smelling their sweat.  I always know when he's been working construction on a farm; I have to wash his clothes twice on those occasions to get rid of the manure scent.
Old ladies with too much cologne are terrible to sit beside in closed quarters.  Doing a Master's soil science thesis on swine manure management, where we had to hand collect and apply the manure by bucketfuls on the field?  Pure torture for this nose.
Recently, before our vicar came over for dinner, I smelled a horrible rotten odor on our main floor.  In terror, I paced the rooms, trying to identify the source.  It wasn't the bathroom--my son had just cleaned it and the plumbing was working fine.  It wasn't my husband's hats or coveralls.  It wasn't my son's shoes--I put them in the wash just in case.  The dishes were clean, kitty litter scooped.  I was frantic and embarrassed: what if vicar comes, and we still haven't found where the smell is coming from?  I hastily sprayed fabric freshener around to no avail.
Finally, as my husband came in from work, the culprit was found: potatoes gone rotten.  Having an ultra-sensitive nose can be a curse and a blessing.
JSEP