Boundbytheword Blog

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Eat Me February 23, 2011

Most writers I know have a penchant for delicious food. An actual weakness of sorts. Not eating it, but describing it in sensuous detail. All the particulars are included: the taste melting in your mouth, the smell as it hits the senses and makes your mouth water, the firmness of it as you hold it in your fingers or slide it onto your fork, and how simply beautiful it looks on the plate. Every detail is important because you want the reader to want it. Need it. Almost taste the food you are describing, as if it’s on their very tongue as they take in the words.

For me, that same passion for food flooding the senses has crossed over into other areas. I’ve spent the last several months looking for a perfume to replace the one that’s getting down to the very last drops of the bottle. The Jaqua scent is my favourite because it smells just like buttercream icing. There’s just something wonderful about having people sniff you and want to sniff you more. I get a lot of “You smell so good, I could eat you.” And somehow, this makes me incredibly happy.

It makes sense then, that the panic would start to set in every time I give myself a spray and feel the bottle getting lighter. I can’t just go buy a bottle; it was a gift that a friend got down in the States. But in the day of online shopping, I put my anxiety to rest, assured that I would just order online. Needless to say, I was disappointed to see the “online shopping coming soon” tag on the Jaqua website.

I was thrilled when we planned our vacation last month, figuring in Florida I’d hit a few drug stores or a department store and stock up for the next five years of smelling delicious. But apparently it only sells in small specialty salons. Damn, my trip to Target was in vain.

So if I can’t buy it online or in a store, I figured there were likely many sweet-smelling perfumes to choose from, so the hunt was on. And hunt I did.

I sniffed everything from high-end designer fragrances to cheap sparkle bottles made for little girls. Nothing. They were all too flowery, or musky, or spicy, or fresh. I wanted sweet. I kept telling the women behind the counter, “Sweeter! I want to smell like food.” After several hours and several saleswomen, I decided maybe I was the only one in the market who wanted to smell like I had baked myself in sugar. Maybe I’d have to hang up my sniffer, and be happy to smell like normal women, rather than baked confections.

My last attempt was at a local drug store. After consulting with the cosmetician and sniffing Paris, Britney, Playboy and Hello Kitty, I decided to call it a day, grab my shampoo and toilet paper, and go home. Low and behold, down the shampoo aisle, a beam of light seemed to shine down on a bottle adorned with little marshmallows. The bottle beside it had cubes of brown sugar, and the one beside that – a glorious fluff of pink candy floss. I stopped dead in my tracks, could it be my search was misdirected all along, and all I ever needed to do was call out – “Calgon, take me away?”

Sure enough, I sprayed the three bottles into the air and got whiffs of marshmallow, brown sugar, and candy floss. Perfect, I’d be edible in no time.

I brought the windfall home and lined the three bottles of Calgon body sprays up on the counter. I had momentary buyer’s remorse, thinking that in my frantic hunt I may have been overenthusiastic about my find. After all, the only women I knew that actually wore Calgon scents were over 85. No matter, I called in my family for an official smell test. I sprayed the first scent.

My husband guessed lavender. My son guessed paint.

“It’s a food!” I prompted, “Think food, and smell again!”

My daughter guessed chicken nuggets.

Calgon take me away, indeed.