Obsession

This blog is specifically for my father. I will publicly call him out for not answering my calls in the last two days-- but of course, had he answered, I wouldn't be composing this blog tonight.

For the purpose of the collective 'you' appreciating this story, I have to flashback into something that happen to me & Dad in my childhood.

It was Christmas Eve, and I was little. I remember, because I was wearing a dress, and we went to church at nighttime. Let me be clear. We rarely went to church; and, the very few times we ever did go to church, we sure as hell didn't go to church at nighttime with the ultimate exception of one Christmas Eve mass. Also, I didn't wear dresses after the age of five. Additionally, the church was absolutely packed full of people. Indisputable evidence: it was Christmas Eve, and I was a young child.

The pews were drowning in the sea of people. Winter coats floated between each body. It was hot, and my dress was itchy.

Never mind the day or the year or the age that I was, it seems as though every time I'm in a church, my wedding not withstanding, the acoustics are horrendous, spewing the words from the microphone through the speakers and off of every wall, post and statue. My dad once told me that if I had to go to church, to really listen to the stories. Sometimes, he said, the stories were really good. And I liked stories. But the echo of the microphone bounces so badly that night, I couldn't hear anything, except my itchy dress.

The world of my little-girlness consumed me. I was wrapped up in the tulle under my dress. I was thinking about Christmas. I negotiated with God to not let Santa pass Cortland because we were all in church and not in bed. It wasn't paying attention to any stories or anyone.

It was a little while into the service when I shared a moment with my father that I will forever remember, or be haunted by. A woman walked in very late; perhaps she was standing in the back of the church and spotted an opening in front of our pew. She quietly approached the seat in front of my family and sat down. And with her wafted the most putrid perfume gas I have still, to this day, ever smelled. Her sharp sea of stench ripped the innocence of my little-girlness away, and I looked up to see if anyone else had be punched in the nose, too. It was this moment when I locked eyes with my father. We had a very adult, silent conversation in the next milliseconds, wherein we concluded it was time to leave. Dad stiffly cleared his throat, in an effort to find a clear whisper while simultaneously not dry heaving in my mother's lap.

"We'll be in the back," He grabbed my hand, and we left the pew.

But it was too late. In the time laps of seconds, we had be inundated with the odor. Despite our bolt for the door, despite the December air or the calculated new location, fifty yards diagonal to this woman and her perfume, it clung to us like dog shit on a shoe.

I'm pretty sure that was my first headache, and I remember my father, on our way home (we took two cars and Dad and I were the first to leave the church that night) telling me that that woman was wearing Obsession.

"One of Uncle Rick's old girlfriends used to wear that. It's called Obsession. Mia, when you get older, don't ever wear perfume like that. Ever. Or I won't let you come over for Christmas Eve."

And at twenty-five, I still rarely wear perfume.

But that is the back story. THIS is what I have been dying to call my Dad about all week...

My older brother and sister-in-law gifted me with a really great present for Christmas this past year: Birchbox. Birchbox is a beauty store. The idea behind it is that you buy a membership, and each month, they send you beauty samples: mascara, eyeshadow, hair product, nail polish, whatever. The sample sizes are enough to use for the entire month, and Birchbox provides incentives to purchase the full size products...

I received my February Birchbox a few days ago. I brought the package inside as I returned home from work, and I couldn't wait to open it. Before I opened up the house or flipped on the fans, hell, before I even really put my school bag down, I was tearing into the pretty pink box. And before I could fully open it, before I was even at the top of my stairs...

 That smell. Obsession. Like a goddamn punch in the face. It instigated a cough and my eyes watered painfully. I couldn't believe in 2013, fashion and beauty would still deem Obsession socially acceptable.

But they changed the name. "Harvey Prince Skinny Chic". New name, same goddamn perfume. I salvaged what I could from the box; Harvey Prince spooged all over the contents and soaked a probably perfectly good candle in its filth. I had it on my hands. It got in my hair. I not only threw away the box, but I had to also take it outside to the garbage bin. Then I had to wash my hands and pull my hair back.

Even the salty, Hawaiian air couldn't cure the ambush. On my afternoon run, the scent lingered, beckoning a headache and threatening violent dry heaves if I took deep of a breath.

Dad -- I thought of you and that grown up moment we shared on Christmas Eve at St. Mary's. My Birchbox reminded me of the horror I saw in your eyes that night when that woman sat down in front of us, with her 90s perm and church coat and fog of Obsession. I promise that there isn't a trace of the stench left in my house, so it's still safe to come visit next week.