Katy McDermott

Not for nothing do they call smell the most evocative sense. I got a whiff of Jungle Gardenia perfume recently, and in an instant I was a guilt-ridden 5-year-old again, tempted to look over my shoulder to see if my mother had caught me pilfering between-meal cookies.

This intense cologne reaction can go several ways. I was once tempted to deck a complete stranger in an elevator because he wore the same after-shave as my ex. The scent of Jontue (don’t lie, fellow 40-something women – you bought it too) takes me right back to my senior prom, complete with French-braided hair, a Styx power ballad, and a fake-flower arch where my date bent his arm unnaturally to highlight my corsage as we got our picture taken.

I’ve left my Jontue days long in the past, but Old Spice will forever smell like argument to me.

I suppose I’m thinking of smells so much because my husband recently commented that he can’t escape the scent of mulch. And he’s right – it’s everywhere. A sharp, tangy smell that selfishly obliterates every other aroma in a 2-mile radius. But after the winter we’ve had, mulch = Spring. It has a perfume all its own.

So, oddly enough, does cow manure. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to smell it without thinking of a local farm at which I’ve spent many happy hours enjoying the chance (along with hundreds of other suburbanites) to “get my rural on.” The milk from those cows has been magically transformed into far too many mint-chocolate-chip ice cream cones. And when I visit the calves in their tiny individual pens, it’s easy to convince myself that one specific calf – I can even identify her by the number tag she sports like a low-rent earring – has eyes only for me.

What is it about baby animals? Puppy-belly smell renders me completely helpless and delighted. I imagine God made puppy-bellies smell so good so we wouldn’t be too angry when they ate entire sneakers (puppies must have impressive digestive tracts!)

A close cousin to this phenomenon is that of kitten-breath. I have a cat who’s broken a lamp through her feline skittishness, shredded several box springs with her claws, and frequently tumbles head-first into her food bowl, scattering Science Diet pellets throughout the kitchen. But she has only to lick my nose and all is forgiven. Kitten breath. They never outgrow it, and it’s irresistible.

Would you believe that I even have a soft spot for the odor of horse dung? It’s true. Combined with the smell of deep-fried, powdered-sugar-laden funnel cake and meticulously oiled leather saddles, it never fails to put me in mind of a favorite local horse-show-cum-country-fair.

I guess scents mean different things to different people. You’d think that fresh-cut grass would be a universally positive aroma, but to a landscaper, the association with endless sweltering days of pruning unruly hedges and gallon jugs of lukewarm ice tea teetering on yet-to-be-mown lawns would conjure up anything but a relaxing image. The smell of newly-fallen rain is the stuff of misty-eyed, romantic dating commercials for some – but to me, it just signals a dreary sky and a slick commute. For good memories, I’ll stick with horse dung, thank you very much.

However, horse dung isn’t everyone’s cup of tea (ew – horse dung tea!), and an entire industry has grown up around making our environment smell good. Way back, there were “sachets,” which resided in your grandmother’s nightgown drawer and were the forerunners of potpourri. Potpourri is an interesting racket: gather whatever twigs, dead flowers, and shriveled fruit you can find in a local park, pour some scented oil on it, package the whole lot in a clear cellophane bag tied with a raffia ribbon, call it “Apple Harvest” or something – and charge $11.00.

But with potpourri, the aroma-industrial complex was just getting started. The real money lay in candles. Impressively molded into the shape of everything from jars to lamps to miniature rabbits; striped, swirled, and blended in every shade on the color wheel; and even more creatively named than paint chips, scented products have probably neared the top of their “market penetration” arrow on this year’s Yankee Candle annual meeting PowerPoint.

(I’d like to have a word with the folks at Yankee Candle headquarters, though. How exactly does a hunk of scented wax conjure up a “Midsummer Night?”)

The newest thing is “reed diffusers” – basically, you plunk a bunch of balsa-wood sticks in a bottle of scented oil, and it perfumes the whole room without the danger of an open flame. Full disclosure: I love reed diffusers. I have two in my office at home (I’m still trying to mask the smell of smoke after being quit for months) and one in my office at work. This hippest of aroma-trends, though, is also the most confusing. The names of these scents aren’t even remotely literal (it makes me long for “Midsummer Night!”) Someone walked in to my office the other day, asked me what smelled so good, and I said “Serendipity.” My colleague found a reason to leave pretty quick.

I’ve got real estate on the brain these days, and it’s amazing how big a role aroma plays in “staging” a home for sale. Holding an open house? Make some chocolate-chip cookies or (better yet) an apple pie that morning. It really does make prospects more likely to make an offer. I don’t know if they think you’ll stay on as their personal pastry chef or what…

But forget artifice. My clearest scent-memories are the simplest ones. Truck exhaust fumes smell like my commute. Thin-crust barbecue chicken pizza calls weekends to mind. Salty air smells like Cape Cod – and the excitement I always feel at visiting my family there. Alfred Sung eau de parfum and Armani cologne smell like Date Night, Garnier shampoo like my frequently wet-haired niece. Cigar smoke used to belong to my grandfather, but now it smells like my husband, as does Guinness (and the far more wholesome Irish Spring soap.)

I could probably replace sight (guide dog, Braille) and hearing (Cochlear implant, lip-reading). But I couldn’t do without my sense of smell.

The water that caused her “eureka” moment? To Helen Keller, it must have smelled like nectar.

If Canada ever decides to attack us, or an earthquake destroys our townhome development in suburbia, I’m all set for supplies. I just got back from Costco. I have two dozen of everything.

I go to the warehouse store every few months or so, and the variety and volume of their merchandise always amazes me. Floor wax, ketchup, batteries, frozen chicken wings, vitamins, grapes – as long as you want vast quantities of it, you can probably find it. There are some drawbacks, of course. Every brand of shampoo comes in 72-ounce bottles only – far too big for my delicate hands (which unfortunately don’t match my waist circumference…)

Because I don’t have a pre-Vatican-II-Catholic-sized family (in fact, it’s just me, my husband, and our niece), I only buy non-perishable items. The only fresh foodstuff we could consume before it spoiled would be the chocolate chip cookies – and since we’d each have to eat 6 a day for a week, I just don’t bring them into the house.

Bar soap, however, is a different matter. Some time ago, I came home with a huge pack of Irish Spring bars. Every time I head to Costco now, I ask my husband if he needs replacements. Every time, he replies, “Nope. I’m good.” His hygiene is excellent – but he’s been saying this for three years.

Speaking of hygiene, do you happen to have an especially – productive – infant? If so, Costco’s the place for you. You can buy a package of 900 baby wipes there. 900. Not a typo. I don’t have kids, so I can’t say for sure, but I think your child could be well into grade school before you could go through them.

But before babies enter the picture, you first have to pair off with someone. Did you realize that your local warehouse store can be a tremendous relationship ally? For the courtship phase, you can procure some extremely tasty Belgian chocolates (yes, I tried them – it was research!) and lovely violet-and-rose bouquets. The fresh flowers may seem incongruous, displayed as they are between gallon jugs of disinfectant and 350-count bottles of Pepcid, but they’re there.

When the relationship turns serious, you can browse the fine jewelry section for an engagement ring. So what if there’s about as much romance in this as in a locker room full of post-game basketball players? The prices can’t be beat.

As for a bridal registry, who needs Tiffany’s? Ask your guests to procure their wedding presents at the warehouse store, and you’ll not only get the pots, pans, cutlery, and salad spinner you so desperately need, you’ll also be set for life in terms of condiments. And since no bridal registry is complete without a slow cooker, you can add that to your list as well. On my most recent trip to Costco, I saw a Crock pot that came with a mini Crock pot included – so it can take up even more space and be even more useless!

When you’re planning your honeymoon, don’t forget about those racks of brochures at the front of the warehouse – Costco can arrange everything from a luxury cruise through the Aegean isles to a romantic getaway to Bora Bora. And of course, once you buy your first home, look to Costco to provide your garage door, heating system, custom countertops, carpets, and “window fashions” (I can’t help visualizing a bay window asking a transom “do these curtains make my panes look fat?”).

You can find mattresses, patio furniture, leather recliners, home office furniture, and even several types of ferns in addition to your standard bulk-quantity items. In fact, it might be a good idea to purchase an extra-large storage shed to house the extra-large stuff you buy.

Of all the enormous items I’ve seen at the warehouse store, though, none was as laugh-out-loud-in-disbelief astonishing as the 12-pound chocolate cake in the bakery. You heard me. Twelve pounds. It looked like an unusually appetizing tree stump. (In a forest I’d love to get lost in, by the way.)

But as much as the concept of an elephantine chocolate cake appeals to me, I can’t help but wonder if it’s quintessentially American to want more and bigger stuff. Are there Costcos in the UK? Sam’s Clubs in Bulgaria? Warehouse stores in – sacre bleu! – France? (I must admit, it’s tough to imagine a 12-pound baguette.) A quick Google search tells me there are. Forget McDonald’s, Microsoft, and Disney. I think Costco wants to take over the world.

And apparently, those of us who shop there have never heard of the environmental movement. It makes me wonder if Costco’s ever inspired sign-wielding protesters to block its doors. The hard plastic, cardboard, and cellophane that shroud pretty much everything in the store seem designed to last well into the next millennium. (You’re welcome, Future!)

But perhaps I’m getting overly political here. Perhaps it’s just a question of others shopping at Costco for the same reason I do – to save money. The siren song of the 24-pack of paper towels can be pretty tough to resist. I’ve seen actual rich people shopping there. Back when I was a pharmaceutical salesperson, I called on cardiologists. I saw one of my former clients at Costco last week, and I assume he makes a pretty good living. Probably drives a Porsche and lives in a 5,000-square-foot mansion in a gated community designed to keep riffraff like former pharmaceutical salespeople out.

Still… 460-count dryer sheets…

I enrolled in karate classes a few months ago. Schedule conflicts forced me to stop attending, but I plan to return. I’m nowhere near being able to shatter a cinderblock with my bare foot yet.

I started karate because I needed to get in shape, and given the level of dust that’s accumulated on the treadmill in my basement, I figured it would be good to have an outside place to go several nights a week. A traditional fitness club was out. I’d gone that route before, only to leave after one aerobics class, intimidated by the legions of hard-bodied members in skintight, bulgeless workout gear who clearly didn’t need to be there.

My local shopping center has a karate place, and one day I checked it out. I observed a class full of children, obviously at the advanced level already. Well-behaved moppets in neat white “gis” (a “gi” is the traditional martial arts outfit) kicking, chopping, shouting “yah!” as they executed particularly strenuous moves. At the end of the class, they bowed and thanked their “sensei,” or instructor.

How very civilized!

“I could do this,” I thought. After all, if 4^th graders were performing roundhouse kicks, twirling nunchucks like extras in a Bruce Lee movie, and flipping much larger opponents, how hard could it be?

Besides, I liked the gis. Very forgiving.

In order to prevent the “taking one class and never coming back” syndrome, I paid for a month up front, was given my gi, and told the date of the next Adult Beginner class.

“Adult Beginner” class. Sounds just right, doesn’t it?

Well let me tell you, the studio owner used both the words “adult” and “beginner” pretty loosely. There were ‘tweens in those sessions who could kick my ass.

The first challenge, however, was simply putting on my gi. The pants (mercifully loose) were no problem, although since we worked out in bare feet, I could see that I’d need to schedule regular pedicures. The jacket, while hiding the evidence of any number of chocolate truffles and triple decker club sandwiches with extra bacon, bristled with an alarming array of fabric strips which had to be threaded through specific holes and tied to other fabric strips.

The sash was the real puzzle, though. For one thing, it was about nine feet long. For another, it required such a complicated sequence of looping and folding that I knew I’d wind up looking like someone’s “My First Origami” project if I tried to do it myself. I adopted an air of casual lightheartedness as I sought help from a middle schooler. He called me “ma’am.” I longed to karate chop him then and there.

The lessons were remarkably effective, however. They started with a merciless workout (I’m convinced the sensei was an off-duty Green Beret). Do fifty jumping jacks to get the blood flowing. Balance on one foot like a sleeping flamingo. Fall over. Lunge in every direction. Hold until your thigh is quivering, your muscles are burning, and you’re beginning to question your sanity in signing up for this @#$%^& class in the first place.

Switch legs.

After the warm-up, we performed stretches with a partner. Karate classes tend to be filled with men, so I was paired off with the only other female. As this deceptively sweet-faced and petite brunette forced my leg to go to places it hadn’t seen since high school, I became convinced that she too was an off-duty Green Beret.

Once we were sufficiently warmed up and stretched out, it was time to begin the meat of the class. Surprisingly, this involved neither boards, bricks, nor cinderblocks, but rather self-defense. Within twenty minutes, I’d learned how to break the hold of someone choking me, trip an assailant by simply stepping in front of his knee, and escape from a thug who’d pinned my arms from behind. All I’d need to do would be remember these techniques during an actual mugging, as opposed to employing my more instinctive “scream and sob” reaction…

(To give credit where it’s due, most people take martial arts classes for longer than a few weeks, and the techniques themselves become instinctive. I certainly saw a few 12-year-old black belts I wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley.)

The self-defense portions of the lessons were a lot of fun. I was working out and learning to protect myself at the same time. We were paired off for many of these exercises, and since they didn’t involve the somewhat immodest “stretched-out inner thigh” posture, these pairings were gender-neutral, and we rotated partners throughout the hour.

I have to admit, I gulped a bit when I lifted my eyes to squint up at one of my “opponents.” Remember the enormous villain who bites through the wire holding up a cable car in one of the James Bond movies? That size. Thankfully, he appeared to view me as his rest break, and “attacked” me with only the lightest of touches, patronizingly saying “good job” while he pretended to fall down as a result of one of my feeble jabs.

My female stretch partner wasn’t so kind, however. A nicer woman you couldn’t hope to find – outside of class. During class, she almost broke my arm and karate chopped my carotid artery while practicing a particular move. I couldn’t help but wonder what I’d done to offend her. Clearly, she didn’t know her own strength – or my own weakness.

But Bond-movie-sized “bad guys” and a bruised shoulder weren’t the end of it. Oh no. Just when we thought we’d finished, and were ready to bow and thank our sensei, he had us gather in the back of the studio and perform “line kicks.” Kick one leg, then the other, in front of you as you travel up the entire length of the gym, then back down, then up again, then down, and twice more for good measure. By the end of class, I was bright red and sweating (man, those gis are hot – it’s like wearing a sauna), and I tottered to my car on shaking legs. 

It’s too bad I had to stop taking classes. I can’t remember how to break a choke-hold, and I’m convinced I’ll get mugged shortly. Plus, I’m getting flabby again… One of these days, my schedule will calm down and I’ll start over.

In the meantime, I just hope I don’t come across a pack of martial-arts-trained ‘tweens in a deserted parking lot.