Pasteurized? No...up my nose

There is a reason realtors suggest having an apple pie or chocolate chip cookies baking when selling a house. There is a reason that the aromatherapy business chalks up over a billion dollars in sales each year. And there is a reason why I have NOT volunteered to be on my school's LEAP committee AND there is a reason that I rarely venture out of my classroom. I try to keep my nose out of other peoples' business and hope (in vain) that they return the favor. And what do I get for my trouble? A whipped cream pie injected up my nostrils by a giggling 3rd grader who refused to be intimidated, threatened, or bribed. To be fair, it was better than the giant toilet brush used for Covid testing but still...

Upon entering the auditorium, I was neither prepared nor pleased to be wrestled into a black plastic garbage bag with a spiffy shower cap to capture my hair before being pulled on stage with the other "volunteers." "I'm getting you a dictionary for your birthday next year," I growled at Erin who danced around in delight that I admitted that I was even THINKING about getting her a gift. Wrong reaction. Frowning, I did a quick inventory of my fellow victims and was startled that they were all smiling. Idiots. It was time to awaken the sheep. "Don't you understand what's happening here?" I asked, gesturing to the wild crowd whipping themselves into a frenzy. To my shock, I learned that they had signed up for this spectacle. "But I didn't sign up," I sputtered. They nodded happily, laughing. "You wouldn't have come if we'd told you," Erin explained. No, duh.

I sighed dismally and resigned myself to my fate. Thank goodness my generous paycheck reflects these daily humiliations that I am forced to endure. My archnemesis Tyler was sacrificed to the mob before me. I watched in horror as he moved to sit in the chair positioned on the tarp, only to have Erin heartlessly whip it away so that he cruelly fell to the floor. Could this get any worse? She pretended to apologize right before he got smacked in the face with a pie. I inched closer to the exit. 

The 3rd grader who selected me obviously lacked the gift of foresight. Towering over him, I offered him several options. "Let's just forget about all this and head to the vending machine," I said, smiling encouragingly. Nope. Okay. "Wouldn't it be HILARIOUS," I tried again, "if, instead of hitting me with the pie, you veer off at the last minute and hit Mr. King? And then...you and I will head off to the vending machine. The world is your oyster, kid." Nope. Must be the boy wasn't into seafood or didn't understand idioms. What on earth are they teaching in schools these days? Time to pull out the big guns. Looking as menacing as a woman wearing a shower cap and black garbage bag can, I snarled, "You better HOPE that you don't have me next year!" He giggled. Dang. I sat down...holding onto the chair and keeping an eye on Erin the entire time. I should have kept my eyes shut because that third grader pummeled me with the pie. Hope he enjoys writing three page essays about Reaganomics and the navigational travel patterns of dung beetles. 

The olfactory system has an amazing ability to trigger memories. The scent of honeysuckle transports me to a Nantucket bike ride. Lilacs lift me back to my childhood home. A blast of Brut deodorant plants me as a passenger on a three-wheeler, ripping through the woods as a teenager. But Spring in Wyoming County often has us wishing to be distanced from our sense of smell...especially if you attend school surrounded by fertilized fields. Now add in an unseasonably hot and humid day. And layer THAT with whipped cream conditioner in your hair and dairy drying into your denim. What a combination! Sour milk and manure. Where is Erin? I am going to "tractor" down and kick her in the "dairy air."