My Love Affair With Dove Soap...

It's that time again....another classic Maggie story that helped shape who I am, while also identifying me as that nerd alert.

By popular demand, as usual, I submit: My Love Affair with Dove Soap:

I've always had an intense fascination with smells. I know that is a strange way to begin ANY story, but nonetheless I feel it is an important character quirk that you must comprehend before we go any further. I have the most difficult nose there is. It's not that my nose is unable to smell, quite the opposite actually. Instead, my problem arises whenever the nose becomes obstructed, which is just about all day every day. I was struck with this horrible affliction at an early age. "But Maggie," you say, "surely the marvel of modern medicine could you provide you some assistance?" True. Developments in this important field have brought us not only Nyquil and Benadryl (legal crack) but have also inspired Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman (who's greatest accomplishment was as a hilarious joke in Talladega Nights). However, at my young age the standard method of treatment for allergies was either a shot (no thank you) -- or -- a giant yellow horse pill the size of my pinky finger taken in conjunction with a nasal spray. The pills I could handle. Thanks to years training my throat to swallow those ginormous things....well....nevermind on that. Anyways, my problem arises with the nasal spray. It smelled of fish and tasted of cheetos. Not pleasant. I refuse to touch the stuff, let alone shove it up my nose. Therefore, I pretty much can't smell anything, ever.

Here's where the soap comes in. I CAN smell soap. Not only CAN I smell it, I LOVE to smell it. To me, Dove Soap is the greatest smelling thing on the planet. Yes, moreso than Clinique Happy mixed with weed (my signature scent).

When I was younger I would spend countless wrinkle-inducing hours in the bathtub literally sniffing soap. (Ok, if you didn't think I was weird before, this is right around when you go WTF?). At a certain point of eath of my baths I would convince myself that if soap SMELLED this good, surely it TASTED good as well. I would slowly lift the bar of soap to my mouth, stick my tongue out and swipe the soap as fast as I could. Then I would cringe into scrunch face for which there was no cure, howling all the while as the disgust that befell my mouth.

BUT, like clockwork, the very next day I would find myself staring at the soap, grasped tightly between both hands in front of my face. Convinced that THIS time it would be good. THIS time it would be different. As I pressed the soap to my tongue, there was the brief moment where the wonderful smell masked the horrible disgustingness and for a split second I would think "AHA!" Which was immediately followed by "EWWW" as I would turn the faucet on and frantically splash soap into my bubbly mouth.

Here's where it gets weird, as if it hadn't already... This bathtub scenario repeated itself for years. From ages 6 to about 12. Finally, at age 12, I sat myself down for a nice long talk about this "soap thing." Right then and there I decided to go all in, balls to the wall. If soap was EVER going to taste good, now was the time.

So I did it. I took a BIG BITE out of a bar of Dove Soap. It sat on my tongue for all of 10 seconds before I spit it into the tub and immediately began washing my mouth out. I was unsuccessful in that attempt.

Needless to say EVERY TIME I drank ANYTHING for the next week there were bubbles in my mouth. I've never tried again to taste soup, but its a constant daily struggle not to.

Big thanks to Deb who bought me an economy size pack of Dove Soap for Christmas, which I immediately sniffed right then and there, to her horror. While the sight of boxes of soap on my desk, and the sweet smell during my morning showers are a constant reminder of what could be, I now know the difference between "smells good" and "tastes good".

For those of you that ever eaten anywhere with me before, YES....this is why I smell my food....but that story is for another day.

I am an asshole.