The other night, Chef came home from work right as Kayla and I were about to retire for the night. He hugged me, and I said, “Will you take a shower before you come to bed? You smell like rubber.”
Now, I don’t know why he smelled like rubber. Maybe it was from gloves he had worn while he was carving. But it wasn’t a very nice smell.
Chef rolled his eyes. “Kayla,” he said to our niece, “she’s always telling me I smell like weird stuff when I come home. Rubber, motors, all kinds of stuff.”
“Well, you do,” I replied. “It’s just the stuff you work with. And it’s fine, but I’d rather you cleaned up before you came to bed so it doesn’t seem like I’m sleeping next to an engine.”
“Well, you girls smell like flowers,” he said, joking that this disgusted him. “It makes me feel like I’m sleeping in a field of flowers!”
“I’d rather sleep in a field of flowers than a munitions factory,” I responded.
He scoffed. “Well, that’s you.”
I rolled my eyes and said to Kayla, “Boys are weird.”