December 7, 2012
The year was 1978.
I wanted this for my birthday, and I wanted it bad.
THIS was my calling.
I would be a perfumerarianist.
A maker of smells.
I would make smells the likes of which had never been smelled since the beginning of time.
Smells that smelled better than Sweet Baby Jeebus’s little baby noggin. Smells so glorious and hypnotic that when I wore them to school, kids on the playground would be drawn away from their games of four square to sniff me and look at me in awe and strangers would stop me on the street and ask me how it was that I came to smell so fantastic. I would reply “I am a perfumerarianist, and I own my own perfumerarary.”
People would beg to buy my bottles of amazingness and their nostrils would delight in what they inhaled as their nose hairs danced an awesome olfactory jig. I would become rich. People around the world would be wearing my smells. I would go down in history as the most successful perfumerarianist EVER.
A dream I saw as clearly as if it had already happened.
Here’s the reality:
After months of incessant whining about how desperately I needed this miraculous machine, and even though my mom thought it was a stupid waste of money, she gave in so that I would not fulfill my threats to sell our fine china in order to acquire the “ridiculous contraption” that was going to make my whole life worthwhile.
After opening it, I ran immediately to my lab (AKA perfumerarium, AKA playroom) to make the dream happen.
But the dream did not happen quite like I thought it would.
No matter what proportion of what scents I mixed together, it always ended up smelling like a dead animal’s bunghole.
So I went to get some extracts from my mom’s baking cabinet and threw in a few drops of each in order to jazz things up.
But that only made it worse.
The addition of the extracts just made it smell like the bunghole of a dead animal that had eaten a lot of cake.
So I thought “Hey! Mouthwash makes stinky breath smell awesome!” so I got the mouthwash and mixed that in.
The new mouthwash addition was a real letdown not only to my nasal cavity but also to the part of my body that keeps the contents of my stomach from quickly exiting my stomach through my mouth hole.
This newest concoction smelled like the bunghole of a dead animal that died from eating too much cake and then had a case of Listerine poured on his carcass in some sort of strange animal kingdom burial ritual.
After a few days of desperately trying and failing to fulfill my purfumey destiny, I dumped out all of my nasty creations, opened a bottle of Jean Naté, and poured it into the Barbie bottles. Then, in as fancy a script as I could manage, I wrote “Parfume de Patti” on the labels in marker and went door to door selling them for 50 cents apiece. At the end of my sales pitch I told prospective buyers that when they were done I was totally gonna need my bottles back.
I only sold 2 bottles and the empties were never seen again.
Sometimes dreams are bullshit, you guys.
Total and complete bullshit.
And sometimes they smell like it too.
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