Whilst I am like a magpie to shiny, sparkley objects and have a fondness for well made chimes, this falls more into the bohemian trait that my dear father wrote of earlier. I love certain scents, like honeysuckle, blossoms, sandlewood, Nag Champar, Opium, Christalle, lavender, lemon-balm, rose-geranium, roses and freshly cut grass.

When things are clean, myself included, I love the fresh scent. For some reason, I despise unnaturally scented deodorant soaps and I like my under-arm protection to be scent free. But once, I bought a lavender scented stick, because the packaging gave the illusion that the product contained mica: mini glitter chips that would make my hairy pits pretty, pretty, pretty. They smelled alright, but they were just not the little fun-fur disco divas I had envisioned, to my severe disappointment.

You know some days, simply having a semi-push-up bra, white with red cherries,green piping and a red ruffle, even though you know no one's going to see it unless you get hit by a Hummer, (which A. are for dicks and B. did you know as of today now costs the dicks $224 dollars to fill up their tanks? and only get ten miles to the gallon), can get you through the fact that you wish, oh, maybe that you were your cat for the day. (Or maybe just for a complete mind-fuck, maybe Dick Chaney or Tom Cruise. Yikes. What fresh Hell that would be!)

Not that I own that bra. I wish I did. It was on sale, as they always are, because it was made in a size that most women who go to that particular store don't wear. It's a "plus sized" store. Call the shop what you want, but the bra was for a lady who was 36"DD. A pretty dreamy size in the minds of many guys 'n' girls, and most women who'd fit it are not, I repeat not going to this shop. I wanted to buy the bra because it was so pretty that I just wanted to look at it.
But, I have a leeeeeeetle problem.

I live in a land fill.

I can barely find the floor in my room. I'd lose the bra that I can't fit into!
There are a few mitigating factors. I won't bore you with all the excuses and details. The upshot is that I need to organize myself. Which is hard. Once again, to quote my dear father, to do that is like "trying to herd cats". It's a mess, my friends. I have piles of books,clothing,tools and god-wot. There are no cupboards in my room. I do have two bureaus, but I have an awful tendency to try things on and then toss them aside....

So tomorrow, I shall be arming myself with a combination of my usual wake up of Effexor, Topamax, and Ritilin. To keep myself from hearing music, I'll listen to NPR. And if I find myself getting completely overwhelmed and bogged down by the whole think, I'll take one of the last Diazapams. But most of all, I'll be burning a little Nag Champar.

I should add also, that my mother loved the flowers that I sent her from that mother of all mothers, Martha Stewart. If any of you give a hoot, look her up under her brand name, she does fabulously expensive and wonderful flowers, which as we all know, are, come on, say it out loud in Mar-Mar's voice: "A good thing". Now don't we all feel a little bit more superior?

I had sent them before I got the love note from my father, Snidely senior, saying that we should never see each other again. I had called to talk to my mum, and tell her I loved her and she asked if I had seen my father's e-mail. I said no, but we had a lovely conversation. I told her to expect something in the mail on Friday, and it actually arrived as we were speaking earlier today. It must be such a relief for her for me to know the truth finally. She asked if I would meet her next month. Of course!