If memory serves, I was the only kid in my kindergarten who could read. This meant at least two things: 1) that I would have to get up at our school's Christmas event, cross the stage covered with vomit-stained orange carpet, and read a passage from the bible (this was the South, remember, and apparently after school hours, church and state were permitted to mingle), and 2) that when our teachers bought us presents that year--who knows why they bought us all presents? teachers in my county didn't get paid that much--they took special care to buy all the other kids dolls and cool posters and lunch boxes, and they bought me a book. When I ripped off the paper, my little face fell. I mean, I was happy that I could read, but I didn't want to do it on Christmas. I was bummed, that is, until a classmate offered to trade her sweet smelling thumb-sucking dolly for my book, exclaiming that the book I'd been given was scratch and sniff.
Scratch and sniff was a whole other ball game, and so I politely refused the trade. It was a sesame street scratch and sniff, and I still remember being the most drawn to (because repelled by) the vile, fishy smell of Oscar the Grouch who lived in the trash. I scratched him until his body faded and peeled. Grover, the goofy purple guy, made my nails smell of grapes.
The whole reason I thought of this little anecdote is that this week I thought it'd be nice to buy a little present for the person who is going to watch our dogs over break. That person also happens to be my exam-writing advisee. I don't want to get her hopes up too much so I'll say it here: I doubt if anyone will want to trade, especially since it will only smell like ink and pulp, and even though it's cute and red, it's still half Latin. Maybe I'll buy some wine to go with.