I had that dream again.

You know, the one where all your teeth are falling out?

Yeah, that one.

I mean, we all have that dream. All the time. Sometimes, our teeth crumble like dust. Maybe quickly or maybe over what seems like weeks. Other times, our teeth fall out one by one, the first one wiggling for a good long while, but the others tumbling afterwards like candy from a Pez dispenser.

Everybody knows what the teeth-falling-out dream means: Insecurity, helplessness, fear of abandonment, blah, blah, blah. The standard stuff.

One thing I’ve noticed about all my teeth-dreams is that my mum and dad are always there. I know that sounds horribly childish, but there it is.

There’s something about parents that reassures you that, despite losing all your teeth, they’ll still be there for you. Alas, your friends and lovers may desert you, but never good ol’ mummy. Plus dad, in his infinite wisdom, will always know what to do with your dental situation, even if all you have left is a mouthful of dust.

Anyways, mine started with the molar.

It hadn’t fallen out yet, but it was wiggling pretty damn persistently. But then I ran my tongue over some other teeth and noticed they were wiggling too.

Panic-stricken, I ran downstairs and found my dad. He was just about to leave.

“Dad,” I pleaded like a five-year-old, “My teeth are falling out! What do I do?”

Dad, in all his practical ways, pulled out a bottle of superglue from his pocket and grinned.

“You apply some of this when it falls out,” he said. “Press for forty to sixty seconds and allow to dry in a cool place.”

Luckily, I managed to realize that was pretty shitty advice.

So I just ran back upstairs and waited.

The molar came out. Eventually.

I noticed as I held it that it was larger than usual — about the size of half my palm.

Then I looked up at the mirror and grinned.

That’s when they all fell out.

Every damn one.

And then I woke up.

Every day, when I wake up, I weigh the pros and cons of,

Lately, it’s always been A, A, and A, you know?

Work is more important, I guess.

But then I started thinking: On Saturdays or Sundays — a day like today — when nobody comes in, why not work at the office in a pant-free environment?

Is the minimal, inconsequential risk of being caught, humiliated, and made the departmental weirdo not worth the carnal delights of smooth, non-chafed buttocks and the opportunity to feel the crisp, cool air on your loins — all the while doing earth-shattering mathematical research?

Your call, dear readers.

Today, it snowed for the first time this winter.

See that light dusting on the ground? That’s it.

Meanwhile, back home…

One of the most painful aspects with moving away from home is the fact you have to ‘re-purchase’ things you may have always had stocked in the trusty cupboard back home.

Moreover, moving to a different continent altogether, complicates things a whole bunch.

Because now, when you head to your local supermarket, not only is the layout of the land sufficiently foreign to prevent you from zooming through the aisles (because, baby, when I shop, I zoom), but you find that all your trusted, well-acquainted brands of several years have been replaced by imposters.

And I know it sounds preposterous, but having been born and raised in Canada, I just find any British brands suspicious.

So yes. I will, in fact, stand in front of the laundry detergents section for hours.

Pawing. Sniffing. Prying. Crying if I have to.

Because damnit, if it ain’t got Tide or Cheers on the front, it ain’t to be trusted.

And there had better be a cheery North-American toddler with a perfect, Crest-white smile and grass-stained clothes on the front or I won’t use it. Won’t use it, I say.

How do I know British-made detergents weren’t designed to disintegrate North American clothing and produce awful rashes on the skin of poor trusting (yet gullible) Canadians?

But with the shops closing for the night, I’ll often be pushed and prodded to make a decision.

Of course, seeing the picture above, with my new box of laundry detergent proudly displayed on top of my (admittedly wimpy) pile of clothes, I bet you’re wondering how I decided upon this particular product.

Well, suffice it to say, products I purchase are forced to endure a rigorous selection process.

Here’s how it went down.

First, I looked at the price. Cheap, but not the cheapest. Products a few cents (I mean pence) more expensive than the cheapest are loads better.

Second, there’s a hot blonde on the cover. Obviously, if I wash my clothes with this detergent, hot blondes will find me irresistible.

Third, it smells like lavender. Lavender smells good. A bit girly, but I don’t think the people are quite ready for propane-and-lumberjack scented detergents.

Finally, it says “2 in 1: with fabric softener” on the carton. Clearly, that means you’re getting more bang for your buck. I mean, pound.

I know. Intense. Because that’s how I shop.

the three mugs

In which the author prepares to leave his home of twenty years and reminisces about his past with the help of three, rather unremarkable coffee mugs.

Having garnered a position as a student at a well-to-do university somewhere across the Atlantic, I found myself in the prickly dilemma of having to pack my entire life into two, under-50-lbs suitcases (thank you very much Air Canada) and leaving for England.

Unfortunately, for someone as ‘hobbity’ and fond of comforts as me, knowing what to pack and what not to pack is a monumental task.

Take, for example, my mug situation. Every avid coffee or tea drinker knows that the selection of the proper mug is key.

But actually, a mug means so much more than the delicious caffeinated goodness it may contain. Oh yes. A good mug symbolizes comfort. It represents a good home. And above all else, a good mug tells you a lot about the person holding it.

But with very limited room and weight for my possessions, I have to pick and choose.

Thus, it’s essential that I pick the right kind of mug. A mug that evokes poetic images of my hometown. A mug that subtly hints of my childish and rumbustious upbringing. That pains me with twangs of unrequited love and past heartbreak. And of promising futures.

I have four of them. Four mugs, each with truly revealing, utterly riveting stories. Each symbolizing a different aspect of what I’d like to bring to my new home.

Now one of these mugs — which, if you’re the attentive sort, has been a constant companion throughout this blog (look up), I’ve already decided to bring. And the story, though certainly of interest and certainly revealing, is one I’m not too eager to share. Let’s leave it at that.

And so without further ado, I present to you the three contestants.

The First Mug: Mickey and Pluto

This mug, which has a cartoon picture of Mickey Mouse and the lovable Pluto dozing off was a gift from my parents for one of my birthdays. Knowing them, it was probably bought at a second-hand store.

Of the four mugs, it’s the most unexciting, and uninteresting one.

But it’s a symbol of the warm comforts of home. It makes me remember all those times I spent sipping coffee at home, studying diligently, while constantly being peppered with intrusive interruptions by my mom.

Roz Doyle, from the TV show Frasier once asked, “Why is it so easy to love your family, but so hard to like them?” She hit the question right on the nose, and I’m not sure what the answer is, or even if there is one.

It’s not a mature mug, of course. It’s a childish and homely. But it does brings back comforts of Ottawa and of my suburban home. And that’s why I like it.

The Second Mug: Hillcrest High School

One day, when I’m lying on my death bed, I’m going to revisit the fondest, most memorable times of life. And high school, well, high school will most definitely be on that list.

To me, it’s not strange to admit that my final few years in high school are considered the high points of my existence.

I had everything. I had friends from all types and backgrounds — some of whom have continued to form the core members of my troupe. I was close to many of the teachers, and able to laugh and joke with them as I did with all my friends.

I was academically at the top of my game — in a time where you could be at the top of your game. Homework and school projects were always an output for my creative brand of humour and satire, with many presentations breaking out in song and other variations of silliness.

I was an avid athlete, competitively trained in track and field and at one point, National Capital champion in the triple jump. In gym class, I got to run around like an idiot, playing dodgeball, basketball, or whatever was offered on that particular day.

I was in love. Infatuated and silly. Hopelessly romantic.

But that’s what teenage love is all about, n’est-ce pas?

I was naive and still possessing boundless energy and that youthful outlook on life kids enjoy but never fully appreciate. Most of all, I was coming out of my shell. Sure, I was still awkward, but I was learning. Learning fast.

It’s all gone downhill since then. Not in the typical sense, of course. In many ways, I’m more successful than I ever was. I’m older, smarter, and have a pair of documents that proves to the world I have enough academic training to put the average girl to sleep on a date.

But I’ve lost a lot of the magic.

I’ve lost that balanced, jubilant lifestyle I once enjoyed.

That’s what this mug means to me.

The Third Mug: Overbrook Public School

Almost nobody can tell you anything about Overbrook Public School.

That’s because there is no Overbrook Public School. At least not anymore. It was shut down half-a-decade ago.

But even when there was an Overbrook Public School, it was hardly noticeable.

The school taught kindergarten through grade 6 — which was unusual since most primary schools that bother going up to grade 6 are capable of accommodating grade 7 and 8 students as well. Tiny was not the right word to describe Overbrook.

It was minuscule.

It had about 300 or 400 students and a handful of teachers. Everybody knew everybody and that was that. The gymnasium, I still remember vividly (but not all that fondly); the roof was perhaps 12 feet high, which meant the basketball nets where 7 or 8 feet off the ground. You literally had to lob the ball horizontally, otherwise it would bounce off the roof.

No wonder our school was always creamed in basketball.

Me? I was there from grade 4 to 6, but only because the school offered a unique French Immersion program. The thing is, nothing really happened when I was a student there. I was a pretty normal, run-of-the-mill kid. I was quiet, bright, athletic, but not unusually so. Girls thought I was awkward and a total nerd and geek (oh, how things have changed…), but at that age, they still had cooties and I had little interest in the fairer sex.

So in the end, that’s what this mug — a prize for my Grade 6 speech on Amelia Earhart — represents: my humble, quiet, and terribly unexciting past.

Your see, I have high hopes for some of my friends and acquaintances. I think some of them will go on to lead wonderfully successful lives. Make buckets of cash. Marry beautiful men and women. And then invite me to summer in their waterfront homes and lend me keys to their flashy sports cars.

But wherever we are, whatever we may do, it’s important to remember that most of us come from humble beginnings. Some of us attended tiny, unremarkable schools, and, at least initially, led wholly unremarkable lives.

Because, really, it’s all about the journey.