Self-Indulgent Luxury Addict

The warm, "right brain" collection

Anno Domini 2013-ish, Luddette discovered perfume. Like most women, I had some scent in the cabinet (later to find out that the typical warm, moist environment of a bathroom is a fatal location for fragrance) but it was well in hand--not a hint of excess. (On a related topic, see Luddette's busy little Bathroom Cabinet how-to in Leaves From the Brain Book.)
     What happened, I don't know...something about a Christmas gift for the Mister, a suggestion of sexiness, the decisive spritz onto the wrist (later to find out the anterior of the arm, with its hair and oils, is a far, far better place to trap scent molecules), and I boarded a train that took me $1,900 and head-first into a world of self-indulgent luxury.

The cool, "left brain" collection

     Most mothers have a few bottles--mine had L'Air du Temps and Tabu, and maybe a couple others. I eventually amassed close to 75, not including miniatures. (See the full-blow addiction in photo #3.) the first two photos are of my collection in its infancy. I didn't see the incipient danger in my making it all just so. Collection I, top, from left to right, first row: Givenchy Amarige, Dana Tabu, Cacharel Anais Anais, Chopard Casmir; second row: Emanuel Ungaro Diva, Jean Desprez Bal A Versailles, Estee Lauder Sensuous; third row: Giorgio Armani Red, Oscar de la Renta Volupte, Yves St Laurent Opium, Rochas Femme. 
     Collection II, below, from left to right, first row: various miniatures; second row: Nina Ricci L'Air du Temps EDT, Guerlain Mitsouko, Guerlain L'Heure Bleue; third row: Oscar de la Renta signature EDT, L'Air du Temps EDP, Molinard Habanita; fourth row: (hidden) La Perla signature EDT,  Gres Cabochard, Rochas Eau de Rochas.
    

This wasn't even all.  By the end, I had stuff stashed.

Luddette has a tendency to take a good thing, and then go and spoil it.  Not satisfied with what I could buy outright, pry from my mother, or hunt for at yard sales, I started selling perfume online to support my increasingly expensive habit--the addict who deals.

The secret from the husband, the hoarding, the final revelation and showdown...it was halted.  I repented.  I sold or gave away almost all.  But there was a time when I felt rich and exquisite. The secret charm of the Good Life is learning how to feel rich and exquisite without spending a small fortune. That is Luddette's next life lesson plateau.

Unpin Me

Pininterest is the latest technology I'm avoiding. I don't know if I spelled it correctly, and I don't care. I don't like the association with pins. Pins stick me when I reach for one, they're unnecessarily sharp, they fall on the floor and roll away, or hide in the carpet and stab me like scorpions. I'm not interested in pins, because they're not interested in me. They actually like to hurt me. Pininterest is only for people who get along with pins. I prefer pens. The worst they do is smudge my thumb and middle finger pad. Sorry! That's okay, little pen. You didn't mean it.

Charming Things

Things that are charming:
--take a penny, leave a penny
--a toddler inspecting her pacifier
--an insect grooming its antennae
--a freshly washed old car
--a slice of moon over a chimney
--a boy in a tuxedo

Right-Turn Lanes

People in right-turn lanes seem to fall under a meditative trance when it's their opportunity to go.  Where they may have sped up, passed me, and jammed back in to get ahead, the approach of a right turn recalls all their mindfulness skills, and they travel each degree of the arc with steady, observant grace. During this exhibition of presence of mind, cars veer off wildly behind us to avoid a crash and I pray I'm not too badly disfigured.  Or perhaps they're mere sensualists, and a curve, even a concrete one stuck with a preoccupied teen and a trash can, begs a slow caress of the flank. Maybe they realize this last turn means Home Sweet Home, and any unhappy or begrudging association makes them to slow to a crawl to stave off the inevitable. All I know is that it scares me every time.

Poetry Review: Romantic Calculus

In this dreary free verse (the only form she knew), Shannon has all the feminine charm of Hal the Computer, and was probably as much fun to hang out with. Country Boy should have tried to get a date with Piaget instead. (Interesting side note: In addition to his pioneering work in the field of children's education, Piaget was known as a radical kisser.)

Poetry, the Classic Years: Romantic Calculus

One potential boyfriend: romantic calculus: age,
height, weight, state of origin: mental processes, check (standard)--and what is sub-standard.
Hero worship (checking...Jimmy Dean in 1990, accurate to chronological though not sociological age: perhaps even a delayed response to the reality of James Dean as a man.)
Calculating what-all bodes this for me: kissing a country boy on the lips and he kisses well.
Same age as him and I study him as Piaget would
this is what happens when Saturn rules the Eighth.
Throw off the yoke of old-soulism: kiss the boy.

Poetry Review: What Pigs

Shannon's lame attempt at humor in the last line does not lighten this oppressed worker rant in free verse. She was embarrassingly inspired by Studs Terkel (it is said) and, like him, should have just gotten back to work instead of scratching out her class hatred on the client's time.