Whenever I go to visit my daughter in Ohio, she lines up all sorts of activities for us to do together — just like what I used to do for my kids when they were little. Live long enough, and the Parent-Child tables will turn. I loved taking them to the ball pit at McDonald’s to burn off jet fuel, and although I’d probably enjoy the hell out of a ball pit and have reached the age where I no longer care if anyone disapproves, my daughter is a serious, structured Capricorn, and avoids chaos and folderol, which are two of my favorite activities. She opts for more manageable and easily controlled excursions, like crafting, antiquing, and art festivals.
One of our recent activities was a candle-making class, where we could pick from a wall of scents and make our own aromatic blends. I chose scents that hinted of the woods and nature… sandalwood and cedar, maybe a hint of vanilla and some black peppercorn. I went a little crazy with the scents, because “too much” is in my DNA. If one of the woods smells great, then all of the woods will surely smell fantastic!
As the wax melted, I anticipated savoring the special scent I’d created — the woods, and nature, and darkly lit walks on a forest path. Oh, it smelled natural all right. But not the kind of natural I was imagining. However, I couldn’t quite identify it. It was oddly familiar. Sickly sweet. Slightly cadaverous. My gag reflex went on high alert.
What was that abhorrent scent…
And then… it hit me. I knew that smell. It’s at the airport — the putrefying stench of Public Ladies Restroom. I didn’t create “Sweety, Spicy Woods.” I created “Perfume & Poo,” a tantalizing, traumatizing olfactory assault of Chanel No. 5 and ass.
Me being me, I had to light that candle three more times before I’d believe that this candle did, in fact, smell worse than the garbage can for which it was destined. No one should ever have to smell this “scent,” and I use that word ironically, unless they’re doing the pee-pee dance and there’s no other option.
Out it goes.
Should I ever become nostalgic for that lovely eau de toilette (or toilet, as it were), I can just take a trip to the airport, hang out in the ladies room, and inhale deeply.