Only the nose knows

When you live with four males you get used to an assortment of scents that most underexposed females (those that live with only one male, for instance) don't encounter. This morning while brewing the morning coffee, I caught whiff of a funky scent. It didn't disturb me greatly. I just grabbed a new Mr.Glad and tossed the over-full garbage bag out the door.
I then inhaled the aroma of Columbia's finest and nearly gagged. Either my coffee was way past its expiration date and I tossed the wrong olfactory offender out, or my coffee making skills weren't worth beans.
I poured the coffee out, just in case.
That was a mistake, the stench still lingered and now I wasn't jazzed on the strong coffee I needed to make the game go fast. I played along, anyway. I put my nose to the scent.
First the laundry hamper. It's impossible that one family could own so many clothes that need washing. I grabbed the kitchen gloves that I keep for these special occasions and pulled them on tight. Stiffening my spine, I sucked in my breath and plunged my hands into the laundry basket. On one of my last excursions into the basket, I found a leftover peanut butter and banana sandwich. Luckily it had still been in its original sandwich bag, but I wasn't taking any chances. I tossed the soiled clothing into the air like an over-zealous skeet shooter on steroids.
I breathed deeply and recoiled slightly. No, I can't say I enjoyed that deep breath but it wasn't the funky smell of yesterday's rotting garbage, mixed with decaying fish and the putrid corpse of a syphilitic womanizer. It wasn't what I smelled earlier.
I readied myself for what was yet to come. The boys' bathroom downstairs.
In the 20 years I've lived in my house none of the smells emanating from their bathroom has made it up the stairs. I paused briefly to think how bad it must be if it was indeed coming from the washroom downstairs.
I took the few steps downstairs as slowly as one walking the gangplank will. I walked the short hall and reached the bathroom door. Tentatively, I turned the knob.
It creaked open slowly. I turned on the light.
The bathroom's fan gently turned the soft scent of Mr.Clean, Windex and a dash of Comet my way.
I remembered. My son's friends had just visited. It was mandatory that the washroom was clean for such events. I am probably the only mother on the block who begs her son to have friends over, and as often as he likes.
Back upstairs to where the mystery still wafted through the air.
Puzzled, I patted Root Beer on her head, and flopped on the couch. What an enigma.
"Kathy," Dave said as he walked in the room. "The dog stinks, do you think you and Luke can give her a bath."