Day 105 - My Trunk the Floozie

During one of my latest visits home to Houston, I somehow ended up with an SAS shoebox of old perfume bottles - some still half-full. I'd like to say that it was a mysterious addition, that it just showed up in my trunk as if teleporting from a parallel universe or from forty years ago, but I have to admit I know exactly how the bugger got there.

My mother is seriously crafty. And I mean crafty like sly. Like super spy.

The perfume bottle shoebox originated from items my great-aunt owned before she passed away. We were all very close to her, so to part with any of her belongings unless absolutely necessary - well that was blasphemy.  And Aunt Ella would probably have descended from heaven and bitch-slapped us if we happened to part with the wrong item. She was the quintessential tough broad, er, lady who preferred direct communications and never hesitated to say what everyone else was thinking. This I loved about her. This I hated about her. (Case in point: On the day of my older sister's wedding, she eyeballed me in the bridesmaid dress and said, "It isn't healthy to fluctuate your weight like that." And no, it wasn't because I was too skinny. She had a point - I had ballooned but really? Really? This is the time to crack that out? This [albeit truthful] comment sparked the "Aunt Ella is a ****" skirmish which took roughly 8 months to [almost] fully subside.) 

So, thanks to this reverence for Aunt Ella, Mom ended up with a lot of odds and ends that we just weren't willing to let go of and that me and my sisters weren't willing to physically hold on to ourselves.

Then, last month, my sneaky mother began to strategically disseminate Aunt Ella goodies (oddly enough at the same time as she was cleaning out her attic and garage.) First, she picks her time. Then, she picks her victim, er, subject. Then, she executes perfectly on the plan.


The shoebox of old perfume bottles made its first appearance in ages at my older sister's house in April, when I happened to be in town for my niece's baptism. Right before we left for the ceremony, my mother waltzes in with boxes. She opens one of them with a flourish in front of my nephews, who having some Walters blood in them, are immediately interested in the bright, shiny objects within - in this case, beads and costume jewelry. Being pressed for time, the consensus became, "Let's take this all with us and we can look at it after the baptism." (There was an after-party at my younger sister's house. Woot!) A gleam arose in my mother's eyes - one that I was too rushed to notice. She scooped up *multiple* boxes and casually headed out the door (I told you she was crafty.) One trunk pop later and the rest is history.

The following week, as temperatures rose, I realized that my trunk suddenly smelled like a 50s strumpet hopped up on free Avon samples. This contributes to the overall skank appeal of my car: Filthy from pollen dust, needing a vacuum and with a caboose that reeks of Wind Song, Charisma, Youth Dew and White Ginger. (There is a bottle of Joy, but it's empty. Figures.) Somehow, in all the hubbub, the transition of my Aunt Ella's boxes did not progress any further than a deposit in my trunk - leaving Mom scott free of extras and me about 150 miles too far away to give them back (for now.) Well played, Mom. Well played.