Birthday

It was my birthday five days ago. It was fine. Mom cooked an elaborate Molo, shrimp heads and all. She said it took her three hours to make. My brother made me two personal pizzas from scratch. That shit is legit. I ordered McDonald's for dinner, for whatever reason. I got the limited edition glasses just to be able to someday think, "Oh, I got those on my birthday." They are unremarkable, borderline ugly, but I like the boxes they came in.

 

The day after that, Mom and I sort of had a fight. We had missed the first Saturday mass and she wanted to go to the shitty church in town that smells like people and garbage. I think it's next to a sewer grate or trash heap. 

 

There's a distinct smell when people gather, particularly in hospitals and churches. It's a mixture of everyone's scalps, cheap baby colognes, and just general all-day sweat, that's slightly medicinal. 

I've never been in a crowd of foreign people in the same kind of humidity this country has, so I don't know if this smell is unique to us. 

I straight-up said I didn't want to go. Then she started grumbling ominously, probably condemning me to hell. I immediately changed my mind because I didn't want to deal with the aftermath of her going, returning, and making me feel worse about it. I hated myself for desperately striving to keep the peace.

 

It was raining; the church was packed. One side was boarded up because it's undergoing a renovation. We sat in a dark corner, watching a broadcast of the mass on a small, blurry TV.

 

We had to walk there because that church has no parking. I stupidly wore my high, chunky flip-flops, and I had scooped up mud, shit, spit, phlegm, and scum into them. My feet were uncomfortably wet and foul. I couldn't wait to get home and wash up.

After mass, we walked across the street to a dinky repair shop. Mom talked to the repairman and claimed a fixed electric fan and candle warmer. He didn't have a shirt on and was scratching his armpits. 

Both items were filthy and he tried to clean them with a disgusting rag, so he only managed to move the dirt around.

Mom smiled at me, probably expecting me to lighten up since that lamp she had fixed is mine. I did not. I tried to look as dour as possible. She probably wanted to match my disposition, but she exacerbated the situation, giving me this murderous look. It made me feel like a little child again.

She told me to carry the electric fan and we walked back to the car. Then she said she needed to buy bread. I waited in the car. It took her 20 minutes to buy it. 

 

Back home, I meticulously cleaned my feet for what felt like an hour. I was trying not to vomit. The grime had gotten into the sides of my toenails.

 

Facing the bathroom mirror, I tried to replicate the look that I gave her, fully expecting to look like I was seething, but I just looked sad. 

 

The next day, I apologized to her. She gave me this disappointed look, as if I had said, "You should probably apologize to me, too." 

It is stupidly easy to butter me up. She could have gently asked me to accompany her, and I would have gone, unbegrudgingly. Hell, I would have felt good about it, forcing myself to do something decent even though my heart wasn't in it. 

But the thing I really hate is someone asking me to go somewhere, then taking me on surprise detours or running extra errands. It's manipulative. 

She does this sort of thing all the time, and I get it. You make the effort to get out of the house, drive somewhere — you might as well tick a couple of things on your to-do list; okay. But it's the non-disclosure that really irks me.

The worst time that this happened was when one of our dogs died. It was her fault, and probably to take heat off her, she went into a "panic attack." She asked me to go to the emergency room with her. I obliged. After laying down on a gurney for a few minutes, she calmed down.

I was distraught. My beloved dog had just died. I couldn't even react. I had to be attentive to her needs. Okay, that was fine. But then she got up, and started talking to the hospital staff. 

Dad had just died and she wanted to claim some papers or have something signed by the doctor who declared him dead. She went very business-like, while I was sitting on a chair, trying to process what had just happened. I bet my life she was going to the hospital that day anyway; she just wanted to multitask.

When we got home, one of her best friends was there, ready to comfort her, again, probably as a means to deflect blame — that this was happening to her, and only her. This is starting to read like a Reddit post. 

I just hate it when I have to act like the bigger person, especially since I'm the child and she's the parent. 

Anyway, today she paid for the installation of my new AC. That was her birthday present to me — paying the exorbitant installation fees. My package from Officine Universelle Buly also arrived today — from Paris! Now, I don't give a shit about France, and I assumed these products would be shipped from an Officine near me (since there are so many in Asia), but it's nice to know these loverly bottles come from the mother ship. 

I got one lotion, since it's weirdly the only thing that works for my Keratosis Pilaris, one shower oil, and the Eau Superfine (I just really wanted a different bottle), and scented matchsticks. I couldn't order more because that would have exceeded the Customs' de minimis rate. 

 

They still charged me, though; surprise, surprise. Fucking Customs.

The lotion I got is Peruvian Heliotrope. It apparently sparkles like a firework of white flowers, soft and powdery; heliotrope exhales straightforward deliciousness in an alliance with romantic violet, while woody notes and flashes of vanilla, sandalwood, Tonka beans and spices combine to round up the fragrance...

 

Seemed like a sensible blind-buy. I didn't have this one yet, and I will always try some interpretation of the Violet note because, in one interview, Caroline Polachek said that she once bought an old €5 perfume bottle labeled "Violeta" in a market square in Barcelona. I am easily influenced.

Anyway, this straight-up smells like that old pink Johnson's baby lotion. Maybe slightly more herbaceous, but it's totally disappointing. I got the shower oil in Scottish Lichen, which I know the scent of — a cold, blue-green forest or possibly the most immaculately clean sheets drying on some rural clothesline, the sun fighting with the chilly air.

The Eau Superfine smells like something a nun would use. She emerges from her sparse room, fresh-faced, ready for her morning prayers, smelling like this. It does smell of the Rose distillate tones in its description. That, or a very light Mojito, much like Buly's mouthwash.

The matches, I got Alexandrie: bewitching lemon, blackcurrant, mint tea, and vanilla accords... It smells fucking delicious. I will buy a candle of this.

The package also came with scent swatches, so that's nice. There are already three more scents I want to get. I really don't have to go the store anymore. It's quite dangerous knowing that I can have this shit delivered to me in three days. 

I knew nothing of this store until we came across the one in Hong Kong. It was beautiful, and it hit me right in the midst of my Dark Academia phase. The space is small, but t-all, with towering shelves full of ceramic bottles with metal caps. The vibe is a 19th century apothecary, with lines of curious, swirly, scent-diffusing apparatus and sinks with swan head taps. The shop attendants are calligraphers, all crisply dressed, with their hair in sleek buns.

 

Since then, it's been my birthday treat and main souvenir every time we go somewhere. I don't really care that their focus is to honor traditional beauty practices with natural materials and ingredients. In fact, it's the synthetic stuff that really works (although the idea of wildcrafting and old-timey fancy ladies dousing themselves in milks, and oils, and crushed up leaves is stylishly witchy and alluring). Dare I say it, I just like the aesthetic. 

 

I also like the idea that I just stumbled upon it. It's like how you have greater affection for music, films, or books you discovered yourself. And I love a good personal tradition.