I Am Not a Hoarder; or My Life In Fragrances

Recently I have become enamored with the show "Hoarders" on A&E. This show follows the depressive self-involvement of "Intervention" and showcases its own special brand of obsessive self-involvement in the form of fecal hoarding and cat ownership. It is awesome in the way that watching other people who are worse off than yourself is therapeutic. There is a special thrill in being able to exclaim, loudly and to yourself, "Holy shit! At least I have never saved every Garfield comic strip I have come across and then bound them in a kitty litter encrusted Ziggy notebook!"

The aftereffect of getting drunk on other people's mental illness displayed in documentary form is that I am determined not to become one of them. Every episode I have watched has resulted in my purging of material possessions. The first episode I watched I collected 15 garbage bags of old clothes to donate to MRCI. Since that first episode I have gone through my linen closet, all my makeup in my makeup drawers (which is considerable since I worked for both Clinique and Lancome,) and have also gone through my extensive fragrance collection. Which brings me to the real subject of my post....fragrances of my life (wait, what?! I thought we were talking about toothless cat hoarders? Don't worry. I will write about them more later.)

After a marathon session of "Hoarders" I decided to tackle the linen closet in my apartment, which ironically has never held linens of any sort since I have moved in. It has become the defacto storage area for my large collection of fragrances that I never, ever wear. The past few years I have worn Pure Grace and Amazing Grace by Philosophy almost exclusively. I never become sick of them or experience a headache due to either of them. These fragrances are neither complicated nor sophisticated, but that is why they are great for everyday wear. But, there was a time in my life when I had a lot more disposable income and was able to wear more adventurous scents because I worked with a lot of older women who smelled of aged oak barrels and cigarette smoke disguised as high end fragrances by YSL and Givenchy. Their nostrils were so burnt out on their own fetid odor, they never noticed mine. As I was rifling through my nearly never worn fragrances , I took a trip down memory lane and also wondered why at the age of 22 I wanted to smell like a 64 year old named Marcy from St. Louis Park.

I have always been intrigued by the allure of fragrances and exotic perfumes. A lot of its appeal has to do with the marketing and the glitzy, shoulder-padded glamour of the 1980s. I was a sucker for the promise of living like Krystle Carrington and leaving a wake of perfumed odor trails behind the train of my one-shouldered Bob Mackie dress. (I was nine by the way and wore stirrup pants almost exclusively.) I felt like I had been deposited in the wrong family, on the wrong street, during the wrog time. If only people would realize how spectacularly glamourous I was , I was sure to get my due. Until then I would have to live the life in scent only.

The first fragrances I remember becoming obsessed with was my mother's Anne Kelin II and her YSL Paris. At the time there were ads running for another fragrance that featured a sexy woman spraying herself luxuriously all over from head to toe covering herself in an odor burqa. I tried this same method with the Anne Klein II and made myself and everyone around me sick. My mother made me take a bath and I realized that perfumes do not wash off so easily, especially the heavy 1980s sort. I attempted the same experiment with Paris and then tried to hide the bottle in the sandbox so the old lady would never know I took it. Perhaps I thought she would just forget she had an $80 bottle of perfume lying around somewhere. After hiding it in the sandbox I went to our swingset and proceeded to make myself dizzy from the swinging and the cloying scent of roses. My mom eventually found the perfume, complete with the nozzle clogged with sand. She was not happy. I got my just deserts as I had my first migraine at age 8.


My fascination with fashion and the world of cosmetics continued well into my pre-teens and teenage years. They were fuled by many issues of Vogue, Mademoiselle and Bazaar magazines and a coterie of gay male friends that were in my theater classes. In one of these magazines I discovered the new fragrance by Yves Saint Laurent, named Champagne. The ad featured a red backdrop and a seductive woman posing near a bottle that suspiciously looked like a bottle of champagne. The ad said the fragrance was for the "woman that sparkles." I asked for it for Christmas that year (1993) feeling like I was indeed that woman. I sparkled, I wasn't a woman, but I sure as hell sparkled (if "sparkling" was code for laughing loudly and getting in trouble for talking loudly with my neighbor during class.) And what was more sophisticated and luxurious than champagne? I got the perfume for Christmas that year and marched off to school smelling like a peach that rolled around in tobacco. How glamourous.


Champagne was not my first experience of being seduced by marketing without ever having smelled the "juice." This was the 80s after all and everything was over the top and what was more over the top than Christian Dior's Poison? The deep purple bottle vaguely shaped like a poisoned apple. The juxtaposition of the absinthe green and the purple on the packaging and the cloyingly sweet smell got me. However, there would be no reasonable excuse for a 5th grader to be wearing such a fragrance. I was doing very little seduction druing my intro to Swedish class with Mrs. Oberg, so as much as I begged for the perfume, I didn't get it. I had to settle with using my mother's. I remember trying to hide the fact that I was wearing it to school but Poison attached itself everywhere. It became firmly embedded into the plastic wrist strap of my Swatch watch so even on days I couldn't steal a drop of my mother's, I could sniff my wristband. (Speaking of Mrs. Oberg, she was the culprit of many of my headaches that year and I attribute it to her bathing in Revlon Moondrops. It was such a cheap, heavy and vomit inducing fragrance. I am convinced that even if she had worn a finer fragrance that was as dark and cloudy as Moondrops, something like Opium, I would not have had as many sick days.)


In my early 20s I continued to adorn myself with Dior's Poison, but only its flanker sister, Hynotic Poison. This truly was the poisoned apple proferred to Snow White. It was deep red and apple shaped and smelled like a delicious concotion of fruits and root beer. I was hooked. It was sultry, seductive and perfect for a young woman going to the bars in Minneapolis where the fragrance would mix with the scents of cigarette smoke, cheap beer and hairspray.


So, I was reminded of all of these fragrances as I was cleaning out my linen closet and I finally decided to give away most of them. A lot of the perfumes I have never even worn but was holding onto becasue the bottle was pretty or there was a mistaken idea that maybe someday my chemistry would "grow into them." I had to accept the fact that at age 32 Coco Mademoiselle would never smell like anything but toilet bowl cleaner on me. I gave more than 25 fragrances away and have been rediscovering old favorites. I wore Yvresse (YSL's renamed Champagne after the Champagne region in France sued him) last night to bed and Jeff asked why my room smelled like an old man at the Mayo Clinic. Not the glamourous sexiness I was going for, but perhaps he doesn't understand the complexity of the peach and vetiver notes. It figures. No one has ever understood my complexity either.

The Gluten-Free Adventures Continue

So I just recently finished my two-week trial without the wholesome and comforting embrace of our dear friend Mr. Wheat. And how did I celebrate the end of my two-weeks experiment? By gorging on cake, pie, cookies and other delicious goodies at Jeff's family get-together on the 4th of July. I suffered a stomachache and ended the night around 11:30 where I went to lay down at Jeff's brother's house (I had good company though because his brother's girlfriend was there too with a twin stomachache.) You would think after this experience I would have jumped back on the gluten-free bandwagon the very next day. You would be wrong.

I took this opportunity to experience the pleasures of wheat and unhealthy eating when Jeff place the order to Pizza Hut that Sunday night. I have to tell you that food never tasted so good in my life. The breadsticks, the veggie pizza, all tasted as if they were commissioned by an artist and a gourmet cook. I don't know if it was because I knew I shouldn't be eating it or because my taste buds had had two weeks to crave wheat. I don't know, but it was divine.

Cut to Monday morning: stomachache, bloating and a general bad feeling about myself. Bagels. From Panera. My weakness. I couldn't resist. My resolve had been noticeably weakened for two days prior and I was defenseless in Panera's clutches. I watched co-workers wandering around the building clutching these wheaty rings and I knew I was done for. I ate one. I suffered. Almost immediate bloating and.....other after-effects.

It is now Thursday and no stomachache. No wheat on Tuesday or Wednesday and this morning. All signs are pointing toward me eliminating the wheat for good. I already feel better but I know it will take a few more days for it to be out of my system. So, as of now, I may have an answer to my year and a half battle with stomachaches, GI issues and the such.

Quazy Quorn.....I am Afraid of You

A few days ago a friend of mine read my earlier post about going wheat-free and suggested Quorn products for me to try since I am also a vegetarian. (It turns out most of the Quorn offerings contain wheat, but for the sake of my blog entry I will gloss over that little factoid.)

I realized in my many, many, years of vegetarianism and eating meat-like substitutes I have never been once tempted to buy these products. They are situated quite nicely next to my beloved Morningstar Farms and Boca products, but I have never once even picked a box up and looked at it. I now know why. My inner consumer advocate was protecting me.

After my friend's suggestion I imediately did some internet research about the Quorn product line and was met by glowing reviews of its taste by everyone who has eaten them. Everyone raved about their realistic meat-like taste and overall deliciousness. I delved a little deeper into my research and tried to get to the bottom of the question of the day: what exactly IS Quorn?

The answer my friends, is mycoprotein.

It turns out we have the hysteria of the 1950's to thank for the discovery of this strain of mycoprotein. Apparently, the scientific community at the time was afraid that the world was about to embark on a major protein famine that would most likely hit by the 1970's and they were on a race to find a new food to nourish the world. A scientist in Britain found the new miracle protein in a field. A strain of fungus, not a mushroom mind you, but a small strain of fungus was found to be edible. The scientist community then propogated this fungus in labs and created food made from this miracle stuff. They scooped it up and shaped it into the familiar shapes we all know and love; the nugget, the patty and the "finger." It was christened "Quorn" and all of Europe fell in love with it. (With a little help from Marlow Foods a subsidiary of Astra-Zeneca, the pharmaceutical company.)

It wasn't introduced in the US until 2002 to much brouhaha. Gardenburger and the other meat analogue companies balked at having this created food next to their mashed up patties. They cited the fact that Quorn labeled its product "mushroom in origin" which is untrue. Granted a mycoprotein is a fungus and a mushroom is also a fungus but that is where the similarity ends. Marlow Foods thought if they told consumers the real truth about where their surprisingly realistic, yet meat-free chicken patties came from they wouldn't want it. I don't know about you, but the idea of vat-grown fungus in a sterile laboratory by scientists does not sound appealing to me so I would say they thought correctly. Quorn relented and it is now listed as being mycoprotein in origin.

Despite the fact that my beloved soy-based, meat-analogue patties are just as processed as a Twinkie, the idea of eating this created food thouroughly creeps me out. I just cannot get over it. It seems like something out of a science fiction movie. At least with Boca and Morningstar Farms and the other soy-based foods I have a frame of reference. I can look outside my living room window and see a field blooming with soy. I can ea an edamame pod and imagine it ground up and made into a burger. It is real and came from the earth as a food. Mycoprotein, as far as I know, was never meant to be food or anything except Mother Earth's bellybutton lint.

Update: No-Fun Food

I am a week into my gluten-free experiment and so far there have been no stomachaches or general crappy feelings. So sadly, I must admit, maybe it really IS wheat that is the culprit in my myriad of GI complaints.

The week started out shaky as I ate a salad with my all-time favorite salad dressing (Annie's Naturals Goddess dressing)and lo and behold, it contains soy sauce and yep......you guessed it, soy sauce contains wheat. I also made a super-delicious Thai peanut stir fry with peanut sauce that also contained soy sauce, ergo wheat. It has been a challenge for me to continue healthy eating while on this plan since whole grains have long been a staple of my vegetarian diet and the soy-based meat substitutes I am addicted to all contain wheat as a binder. I found I was eating easy to grab snack food that I normally don't eat (such as potato chips, etc.) because I know they don't contain gluten and I wouldn't have to cook an elaborate meal.

So, I think I hit my stride yesterday with my meals. I was able to make easy meals that were nutritious and low-calorie:

breakfast: 1 cup. plain *oatmeal with 1/4 cup of dried fruit and 8 almonds
1 Yoplait light yogurt

lunch: 1 c. of vegetarian chili
1 cup of DeBoles corn-based spaghetti
1/4 c. shredded cheese

dinner: salad with caesar dressing
edamame in pods
small baked potato with light sour cream

snack: handful of mixed nuts

Now, if I can only eat this everyday I will be fine. Bored, but fine. Tomorrow a new challenge will be presented as Jeff and I were invited to go out to eat with friends of his and they picked...Doantelli's. Good thing they have a gluten-free pizza there. I hope it tastes just as good as their others but something tells me it won't.


* re: oatmeal: I know a lot of people who cannot eat gluten do not eat oats and oatmeal because it may be cross-contaminated by wheat. I have chosen to forgo this notion since I do not have celiac disease (as far as I know) and I am on a restrictive enough diet as it is.

A Warm Spring Day In Neverland......

Last night, upon hearing the news that Michael Jackson passed into the great amusement park in the sky, Brad and I rushed into the studio to take live phone calls. We invited listeners to call in and share their favorite memories of this great artist and tell us their favorite song of his.

Many listeners regaled us with stories of their dressing up as him for Halloween or trying to learn to moonwalk on their linoleum kitchen floor. We all have our memories of the Great MJ. I have saved my most favorite, and special memory of Michael Jackson for this blog.

During the spring of 1996 I received a letter in the mail. The envelope was edged in gold and smelled faintly of lavender. The return address was listed as Neverland Ranch in California and I realized that my dream had come true. Michael had finally written back to me after all these years. I trembled as I impatiently ripped open the envelope and held my breath as I reached inside. A first-class ticket was enclosed to California along with a handwritten note that stated simply, "I hope to see you soon. You are a special little boy."

I held my breath and shook with excitement. I decided to rush inside and pack immediately. My mother stopped me on the stairs and asked where the fire was. I pushed her out of the way and explained that I was going to a better place. A place with orangutans, an indoor movie theater and a freshly pressed sequin glove laid upon your pillow every night.
"But it's the start off your summer vacation! Won't you miss your friends? Archery camp starts next week!" She said as she stood in the doorway.

I knelt down beside my bed and retrieved my duffel bag. "Listen lady, I have waited my whole life for this moment and I am not going to let you get in the way of me fulfilling my dreams!"

"But you are only nine years old! How do you even know what you want?" My mother frantically paced my bedroom as I continued packing. "We were going to go to Yellowstone this summer!"

I laughed at her innocence. How could a national park and a spout in the ground compete with the Man in the Mirror? "Mother, please. I have had enough of your coddling. It's time to let me go."

I arrived in California with nothing to my name but my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle duffle bag ful of play clothes and an expectant attitude. A black cargo van embellished with a large lightning bolt on the side was waiting for me outside. I immediately knew it was for me. I approached it with confidence and climbed inside the van. I sank into the red velvet upholstery and helped myself to the mini bar that was nestled beside the personal stereo. A cigarette and a glass of champagne was exactly how I wanted to remember the start of this adventure.

I must have fallen asleep because my next memory is of pulling through a wrought iron gate and seeing a line of smartly dressed personnel lined up awaiting my arrival. I was surprised at how well Michael must know me. He knew I enjoyed such pomp and circumstsance! He truly was my soul mate.

I exited the van and was lead into the grand foyer. I approached a purple velevet throne tentatively. It was situated amongst the shadows and I could barely make out the slight figure that was primly seated on the throne. As I walked toward the chair I was met with my hero wearing nothing but a regal robe and a smile. My prince was waiting. My prince.

It is now where I leave you wondering about the rest of my trip. That summer we shared shall forever remain between the two of us. Those sultry nights spent walking the beach, those evening spent languishing in each others arms as we watched the "Music Man" in his theater, those mirthful days we spent feeding the llamas....all those memories are alive within me.

He is gone forever and I will never be able to look at a jacket filled with zippers the same way. He taught me how to love and most importantly, taught me the importance of diapering your chimpanzee.

Swingin' on Craigslist

This morning Brad and I discussed a story about a group of swingers who had the misfortune of having a get together during a hotel fire. Sucks to be them. But it got me and Brad thinking.....where are the swingers in Mankato? Do we have them here? And if we do, are they quintessentially Minnesotan? Are the swinger ladies wearing patchwork-applique sweatshirts with kittens on them? Do the men wear John Deere hats? Do they offer you a hot beef commercial as a courtesy for banging their wife?

So, in our own perverted version of computer lab, Brad and I both logged onto Craigslist and looked under casual encounters. Brad had to explain a lot of the acronyms to me, and I learned that MW4MMM means a man and a woman looking for three men to have sex (or in other words, a man and his wife who grew up with an uncle who had boundary issues.) I quickly learned there are a lot of people in Southern Minnesota who are either bored or in a hurry to ruin their marriage.

As we were both at our respective desks in the studio looking at pictures of middle-aged women spread their legs, I realized I have a horrible body image compared to these meaty gals. I hardly ever wear shorts for fear that my thigh jiggling will mimic an old waterbed, and here are women with thighs that looked like they took a nap on a gravel driveway showing off their gams like they were Betty Grable. And obviously, people are taking this chubby bait.

Tomorrow I may come to work wearing nothing but a bathing suit and a confident attitude. SexyLola69 from North Mankato has inpired me to do so.

The Golden Girls and the Potty Patch

OK, I should have been in bed hours ago. I have had a big day today and am dead on my feet. But it is 11 PM and there seems to be a mini marathon of the Golden Girls on the Hallmark Channel and the episode on now is the one where Dorothy's lesbian friend comes to visit and she hits on Rose. So obviously I am not going to bed just yet.

The remarkable thing about late-night television is the ability it has to seduce you with seemingly useless products.....until you realize that you desperately need these products. How have I lived my life without the InStyler? Or even attempted to cook without an onion blossomer? I consider myself an adequate hairstyler and cook, but clearly I have been mistaken. My life has apparently, according to these commercials, been comprised of frustrating moments lived in black and white while I fumbled with a seemingly easy can opener. According to these ads I most likely have slammed the can opener down onto the coounter in discouragement and raised my head heavenward while mouthing the simple phrase "why?"

I am a sucker for these products and fortunately do not have to suffer the indignity of conacting a company in Millsburg, Tennessee for my Magic Bullett. I leave this to my mother. Actually, she just waits until they appear on the shelves at Target and then abandons them after trying them once or twice. They get relegated to one of the industrial shelves she keeps in the kitchen and I play with them during fits of boredom while visiting. But I digress. Tonight, after Rose pretended to be asleep while a lesbian with a thing for cotton-candy haired, bosomy blondes slept next to her, I saw the Potty Patch.

The Potty Patch promises to be the answer to all of your pet feces and urinary problems. Tired of taking your Sheltie outside to defecate? Just lead him to the Astroturf next to the Culligan water dispenser. It is just that easy. When he is done, scoop up the poop, flush it and thank the heavens you never had to go outside. Peeing is another issue. Your small, medium or large dog can urinate on the faux grass and it drains to a tray underneath. When you are done collecting urine for the day you simply take the tray and flush the "liquid" down the toilet. Et voila! Once again, your dog (or you) does not need to suffer the indignity of walking in your own yard.

The idea disgusts me for two reasons: first, the thought of collecting urine makes me want to retch, and secondly, this is fucking genius! There are people like my mother out there willing to buy this product and I didn't invent it, therefore I am not making money off of it! Right now my mother lays paper pads out for her chihuahua to poop and pee on and it is only a matter of time before she gets this. It is such a simple concept and thousands, if not millions, of overly indulgent pet owners will be clamoring to buy this. I am saddened that I never thought of this, and even more saddened that I have to invent something equally as simple yet marketable.

I am waiting for the day an adult human version of the Potty Patch will be needed and then I will debut it on late-night TV. It is inevitable that Americans will soon become too lazy and self-absorbed to take time out of their 4 o'clock Court Block to tend to their bowel needs, and this is where I step in. When the time is right, I will unveil my new product. It will be nothing more than an ultra-absorbent towel that one lays on the floor. However, I will call it a "microfiber blend" and asssure my purchasers that it is made in Germany, and you know the greatest products come from Germany.

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