My Dream Job

After years of pondering the best way to serve mankind and use the skills that I have graciously been granted, I have had a breakthrough.

I want to work in an environment where 'breakthroughs' are had and then properly lionized—in the form of television commercials.

I am ready for this. My bags are packed and I haven't even sent my resume yet. I'm determined to head to the white halls of the Oral-B Institute where teams of scientists, engineers and designers clad in bright white coats and safety glasses hold clip boards and nod approvingly. Billions of Oral-B customers have each contributed with the purchase of a toothbrush to finance the creation of one of the world's most hi-tech facilities.

Well-lit white halls with tall ceilings lead to spacious laboratories that are filled with striking team members from every race who oversee giant working holograms of space-age motorized brushes dislodging plaque from between teeth. In adjacent labs, scaled up representations of molars are lowered from cables into crystalline vats of coffee, wine and other liquids that stain teeth before traveling down the line to have their snowy colour restored by king-sized toothbrushes with neon-green gum massagers. I want to join the ranks of the Experts At Oral-B!

Right now I sit and stare at a 21 inch monitor—pale by comparison to their 15 foot holographic projections—and complain as the air conditioning at my studio kicks in and thunders above my head. It sucks. The people I work with suck and there isn't a single six-foot Norwegian blonde in the place! It's subhuman.

This resume is ready to go. Get me out of this hellhole. Will someone please tell me where the Institute is and send me some contact info? Failing that, I would settle for a postion in the Loreal Hair Science department...

Oh, Liquor Store (a G-Rated Post)

My dad was a '50' man. Nope, not a hip-hop fan, a Labatt's 50 fan. I know because I saved the caps. When I was between 5 and 10 I had a sort of casual bottle cap collection. Nothing I was terribly passionate about, it was just you know, like why not? Most of them were bent in half because twist-off technology was still years away and they were green with a gold '50' screened on top. On my way to or from somewhere I'd sometimes see different coloured caps on the ground and I'd harvest them. Being the 70's and being from a town of ordinary people, that meant if it wasn't a 50 cap it was Blue, Molson Golden or OV.

I should point out that this story isn't particularly about imbibing (though at that time I was excited to some day see what the fuss was about). This is just about aging, regressing in age and a memory.

When you turned over those beer caps and smelled them, you could still smell Eau de Fifty—the cologne of the age of majority. Oddly enough, ten years later there was a guy named Dan in my 10th grade art class who came to class occasionally smelling like the same cologne. I'm getting sidetracked but I recall he also had found a way to give himself real tattoos. He may have been in my art class, but judging by his tattoos, he was never going to be an artist.

So back on track, I smelled the caps and always imagined what beer must taste like. I think my dad once gave my brother and me a sip. Our 'ids' both said it tasted disgusting but our 'egos' (which were in control of our mouths) both agreed proudly and publicly that, "yeah... I liked it". The taste was soon forgotten and it again became a mystery.

I would also accompany my mom to the liquor store on occasion. There were two striking things about the place. It was air conditioned in a time when not everything was, and it too had a distinctive smell. It's hard to describe it. It was sharp but pleasant and unlike anything I have ever had the pleasure of smelling. I'm not sure if it was just this store or all of them, but that place was the only one I've ever known to have that bouquet. I'll call it a bouquet because it's what I imagined liquor or wine would taste like. Now, having tasted my fair share I can safely say, I was smelling something other than the products in that store. But here's the clincher and why I'm even writing all this:

I have just returned from the liquor store with some beer and an urge to write. Why? Here's why. I've been legally purchasing alcohol for nearly half my life, but EVERY time I walk in to a liquor store I EXPECT it to smell like that little place in Ridgetown. And every time I draw that first breath inside I feel 5 to 10 years old. And when my brain registers a 'no match' on the smell, I'm returned to my present age a little let down. Odd isn't it? How my mind has paired a place and a smell.

Oh liquor store smell, I'll find you again if I have to vist evry liqor stroe in this coutry.