So this conversation – brief as it was – happened in our family room yesterday:

Blondie #2: Mom, it really stinks bad upstairs.

M: OK. What does it smell like?

Blondie #2: Lady scent.

Yes. My 12-year-old said “lady scent”.

I couldn’t make this up if I tried. I can come up with some crazy shit – as evidenced in the stupidity you’ve read in this blog – but I guaranfuckingtee you the phrase “lady scent” has never, ever, ever crossed my mind. Like, ever.

Listen, I get it. As the only dude in a house full of women (not counting the two dog boys) I know I should expect this kind of shit for the next 10-15 years. But “lady scent”? Are you fucking KIDDING ME?

Luckily for me the conversation quickly ended or switched topics or perhaps it continued. I can’t quite remember because I was busy going to the laundry room to pour bleach in my ear with the hope that it would seep in and find that part of my brain that’s soaked up the phrase “lady scent” and destroy it.

Fast forward five hours. We’re in the family room trying to decide on a movie, during which time I’m getting scowls from the aforementioned 12-year-old for veto’ing some of her R-rated movie choices. Whatevs, yo. You’re twelve. Gratuitous sexual scenarios are NOT in your future, my dear.

And then – BOOM! – the lady scent conversation rears it’s ugly head. Again. Only this time in vibrant techicolor detail, such as:

– Where used feminine products should be properly disposed of, with Blondie #1 instructing Blondie #2 to take care of it if it bothered her that much.

– Who’s responsible for cleaning the upstairs bathroom trash can.

– How Blondie #2 is going to be way cleaner when she “joins the period club.”

– How to tend to said “lady scent”, at which point I may or may not have blacked out.

This is my life. Starting to think there’s not enough gin on the planet to get me through raising the 3 Blondies if these are the types of conversations I need to be involved in.