Why does everything have to smell? Sorry—that sounds pretty indelicate. Let me try again. Why does everything have to have a scent? After spending the last few days ripping up the wall-to-wall carpeting in my bedroom (green) and my Red Room (red, at the risk of sounding moronic, which I fear I sound more like all the time, though I prefer the term "dull normal," which I believe used to be a category of IQ level and, I suspect, quite a low one, though many of the people one knows tend to be pretty normal and a little dull, even if not all the time, as one wouldn't be interested in knowing them if they were never interesting and always dull, and it is hard to imagine anyone who hasn't been interesting at one time or another, even if not on a regular basis, and dullness the same) and redistributing the dust of 25 years on every flat surface in the house, including the nice hardwood floors that lay underneath the carpet, and since my multi-talented housekeeper, Carolyn Bennett (and she is indeed very much like someone out of Jane Austen, who I understand has been just been outed as the first practitioner of game theory, though I haven't the slightest idea what game theory is, save that the people who study or practice or however it is made manifest are probably neither morons nor dull normals but just speak in a language all their own and one I am not particularly interested in, as though I have a wide range of interests game theory is not one of them and one must draw the line somewhere, and while I do not loathe game theory, as I do outdoor winter sports, it is not high on my list of Important Things in My Life, a list I must really look at sometime as I couldn't tell you what is at the top of it if my life depended on it, which fortunately it does not), I decided I would have to do a major scrub-down myself.

I found in my scullery (I'm not sure that's what it is but I can never resist the opportunity to use the word "scullery," though I believe this may be the first time I have ever done so—used it, I mean, not resisted the opportunity—or even thought much about it, except I suspect Jane Austen used it more than once, so many of her characters living in the kind of country or city houses that would have sculleries, and maids to go with them) an assortment of Swiffer Sweepers but nowhere, and I looked everywhere, the wet pads to go with them, and I could not proceed without them because I had contemplated using the mop and bucket I found in my laundry room (and I know that is the right term, as it is where my laundry appliances are and where I do the laundry) and decided the logistics were too complicated, though it is something Carolyn Bennett can do in her sleep with her hands tied behind her back—can probably do, I mean, as while I have seen her work wonders I have never actually seen her mopping in her sleep, etc.

So it was off to Walmart, which I love (and if there is any other subject as polarizing as WalMart I'd like to know what it is, politics aside), and its array of Swiffer items. The first thing I discovered was that I couldn't remember how big my Swiffer Sweepers were (there were three in the scullery and like the bears' chairs they were in three sizes, quite small to rather large), so I made a guess, which didn't matter anyway as whatever size wet pads I bought would fit one of my Swiffer Sweepers.

The really difficult part of this buying experience was choosing which scent I thought I would dislike the least. There were three on offer: Febreze (I have a hard time thinking of Febreze as a scent, and as I recall Febreze itself comes in several scents), but as I had no interest in any of them I moved right on to Gain, and while I am not totally sure I'm right I believe Gain is a laundry liquid, or are they called detergents? and I could not see for the life of me why anyone would want her house to smell as thought she had flung laundry detergent wildly about, so perforce (another word I would never miss an opportunity to use) I defaulted to Open Window Fresh© Scent, though not without serious apprehension, as nothing called "fresh" has ever smelled fresh to me, like linen or new-mown grass or any of the other odors (and I think that is exactly the right word in this instance) that someone has cooked up in a lab somewhere and affixed a fancy name to, and it makes me wonder if you have to be olfactorily challenged, or perhaps without a sense of smell whatsoever, to think that anything but new-mown grass could actually smell like new-mown grass (and I know the smell well, as mowing my lawn in the spring and summer, if they ever arrive, is one of my favorite zen activities).

I am very careful to use the copyright mark, as after a lifetime in publishing I know what copyright means, especially in these days of Internet piracy and worse, and while this little logo appeared on the box three times, only once was it accompanied by the copyright sign, and I suppose I could have done without it, but when there are questions I prefer to cast my lot with Pascal (and you may have to look up Pascal's wager to know what I mean, but you will be very glad you did, as it is useful in almost every situation, not just religion). Hence the copyright symbol, in case you have forgotten what I was talking about, as had I.

I am sure it will come as no surprise when I tell you that when I got home and opened my prize the smell was far, far worse than I could ever have imagined, and that the Open Window on the label apparently meant you had to open every window in the house to get rid of it, and that it clings to your hands and your clothes like a miasma, and I haven't even put one of the pads on my Swiffer Sweeper and used it. However, considering that I had ripped up the carpets in order to get rid of the olfactory evidence of too many cats for too many years, it's something I must get over. Perhaps thinking of it as Parfum Grand Air, the little French phrase that is attached to the little logo (and if whoever put it there thought it was Open Window Fresh© Scent in French, I can assure you that it is not), will help.

Carolyn Marsh is retired, for the time being, and lives in Camden.