the cheese stands alone

LeeAnn's Day Out, Part One

I went to the mall today, for no real reason.
This, in and of itself, is no great cause for alarm. People go to malls all across the country, with little or no damage.
But it's a different story with me.
If I go anywhere, I am bound to have Encounters.

It's true. Every time I venture out of my little cheesy burrow, I have An Encounter. Remember when I first moved here and met the Jesusfinger Man on the bus? It was a harbinger... a harbinger of Things To Come.

Sometimes Encounters aren't mutant-based. Often it's just me, being myself and finding that somewhat askew of what's normal.
(I blame the cheese. Cheese doesn't care if you blame it, by the way. It's just happy to be a part of life, liberty, and the pursuit of crackers.)

Take, for example, Encounter Number One of the day....
I went to the prettiest store in the mall, Sephora. For those of you who missed the memo, Sephora is the be-all, end-all of makeup shops. I have very little resistance to the lure of eyeshadows in 73 shades of green and mascara guaranteed to give you lashes that create a personal tornado when you bat your eyes.

And perfume... smells and scents and colognes in every sniff of the rainbow. Now, since Sephora is a rather upscale joint, they have those wee bits of cardboard you (ideally) spray a splash to see what it smells like.
Then there are the folk like me, who spray the tester directly on their wrist... and when there's no more space left on the wrists, they move up the arms. Eventually there isn't a square inch of exposed skin that isn't innundated with aroma, and that's when you know it's time to leave.
In a cloud of your own making.

As I paid for my purchases, the salesgirl sniffed. And sniffed. She stood stock still and sniffed a third time, finally identifying the source. It was me.
I shrugged and explained how I just couldn't resist all the lovely perfumes, and she agreed, yes, it was nose-numbingly evident I had no will power.
"That's how I know it's time to go" I continued. "When I finally smell like a French whorehouse."
You know how sometimes the words come out before the brain kicks it? I bet you do.
"But" I hastened to add, "it smells like a very classy whorehouse."

And I took my stinky self and left.
In a cloud.

Posted by LeeAnn at October 1, 2003 05:14 PM