“You Smell Like a Slutty Grandma”

When I was a little girl, I would wander into my grandmother’s room that had a mid-century imported hand carved, dresser that had large round pulls on the drawers. Atop was a gold rimmed glass tray, crowded with everything from designer imposters to top shelf scents.

Ornate bottles, tall, mini all with beautiful curves and sleek ridges.

I would spend what would seem like hours studying every bottle, running out of bare skin to spray the next sample. Then I would spend the ride home smelling like a chemical cocktail of all of them, nauseating my parents with every mile.

Fast forward to being a gal in my forties longing for nostalgia, and my grandma I suppose. I've recently found myself picking up half empty bottles of vintage perfume of all kinds.

I suppose as life gets harder, shorter, throws different things our way, we maybe yearn for a time when we are back in that powder room of nana's playing with different perfume and clip on earrings that dangle.

Being told “you smell slutty” might not sound like something my demure grandmother ever heard from grandpa, but those words were said to me one evening by my husband as I spritzed on Elizabeth Ardon Red Door, one of Shirley’s favorites.

He whispered to me gently as he brushed behind,
“You smell like a,

As if choosing his words very, very carefully.

“A slutty grandma”. He said, pleasantly surprised.

Before I could even have the chance to laugh, he followed it up with
“I like it”.

I should've hesitated for a moment to express my concerns over him leaving me for a woman 20 yrs my senior, but I didn't.

Lately I've been on a mission to chase nostalgia. Remodeling the house to a trending retro interior look. Thrifting vintage jewelry and repurposing it, and lately, hunting for and vintage perfumes.

I recently came across an old favorite from the nineties.

I was wandering past a cluttered wooden display case in an antique mall, when my eye spotted that familiar sleek, black shiny onyx oval glass bottle with the signature script on the front
“Pueblo Picasso”.

I reached into the antique dusty cabinet, slowly pulled out the bottle trying not to knock it over, along with the other 30 bottles all around it, took off the black shiny semi-circle cap, slowly putting it up to my nose.

I mean, okay it was only a travel size bottle, but instantly, I remembered I hadn't smelled this amber musk classy aroma since my mom's impossibly cool friend “doobie” kept it on her dresser, next to her Merits and book of matches. You can guess how she got her nickname.

Suddenly, I was fifteen, sitting behind the wheel of her navy-blue Bronco, learning to drive in an empty commercial parking lot in Minneapolis.

Then later watching her sip Chardonnay by her kick ass pool below her high-rise apartment.

To complete the full circle moment, I recently bought all sixteen-travel size aerosols of Giorgio Primo Imposter body spray at Walmart because it was what my mother wore when I was in high school.

The cashier thought I was crazy, but for $2 a bottle, to have the smell of my mom with me for the rest of my life to spritz around as I wish willy nilly?

I've spent way more, for way less.

There’s something about that bright yellow aerosol bottle, the intoxicatingly addictive aroma that reminds me of hard work, a bleached blonde perm, glossy smile with the most beautiful little gap in between her front teeth and gleaming blue eyes.

ICE CREAM TELEPATHY

After dinner, my husband will hear my signature sigh, catch my attention from across the table and say casually,
“Would you like me to take you to go get some ice cream?”

It has the cadence of say, offering a treat to the family dog. Its sweet.

What really ended up happening is that after repeatedly taking me all summer long, he is just conditioned, like Pavlov’s dog.

The pattern goes like this.

We finish dinner, I let out an
“I'm full. But not too full” sigh of contentment. He recognizes this as a cue that I need assistance in pushing me over the satiation point of “just enough” to “pleasantly miserable”.

He then says, as if right on cue:
“Do you want me to take you to go get ice cream?”

My face lights up, again, very much like a dog, and in the car we go.

Only I ride in the front, as opposed to the back, which is of course, the dogs spot.

AFFOGATOS

My other guilty pleasure? Affogatos.

I recommend having one as a nightcap, provided you don't have to get up early the next morning, or if you ever spot one on a menu, do your tasty buds a favor and order it.

For anyone unfamiliar, an affogato is a simple Italian dessert: a scoop of thick vanilla bean ice cream “drowned” in a shot of hot frothy espresso. That's it. Two ingredients. Magic.

I do have to say all affogatos are not created equal. The ice cream is best rock hard, so when you pour the hot frothy espresso over the top, it keeps its form and doesn't turn into just a sad luke warm latte.

The first time I even heard of an affogato, was in a verse of one of my favorite Lake Street Dive songs, 25. She sings about having affogatos every afternoon in the summer, with the person whom she once loved. Simply romantic.

I instantly had to find out what an affogato was and how is it I have been missing out on this beautifully crafted yet simple dessert combining my two favorite things: coffee and ice cream.

Fast forward to LOVE CREAMERY in Minnesota, a pastel dreamland with local art, tile I wish I had in my kitchen, and a vibe that makes you want to own your own ice cream shop. I was with my daughter, who had just moved away to college, and my husband, patiently waiting in line while I took in every sensory detail surrounding me.

When I received my dessert, I stepped outside, raised the mini pink spoon to my lips and. WHOA.

That creamy light brown frothy espresso, poured over the vanilla bean gourmet ice cream was heaven on my tongue. I knew right then I was in love and this is how I am going to treat, reward or consol myself until the end of time.

Vacation? Affogato.
Depressed? Affogato. Celebrating? Affogato.

I have made subpar versions at home, but they never turn out the same. Some things, like Affogatos should be left to the experts.

They're also small, indulgent, just a single scoop with a shot of espresso, so I've convinced myself they're perfectly reasonable to have at any time of day. I even find myself rearranging caffeine schedules just to justify the means to have another one.

At one point, I even thought about starting a food cart out of a vintage Shasta trailer. Sleek black, tan, emerald, Italian inspired, that would serve nothing but affogatos.

The name of this new food truck? El Gato Affogato.

I would pull it behind my theoretical retro Volkswagen Bus I live in and travel from market to market. In case you're wondering what the weather is like in my world, its always 70 degrees, 9 mile an hour wind and sunny.

My El Gato Affagato dreams quickly came to a halt when I remembered my previous chapter about how not every hobby needs an LLC.

EERIE PODCASTS IN THE DARK

Between the espresso highs and dairy lows, I realized that my current era might be best described as a sensory renaissance; sweet, bitter, warm, emotional and eerie.

It makes perfect sense that my next fixation wasn't edible, but audible.

Mad Ghoul Radio, an atmospheric podcast. Created by a friend Robb Pastor, who is a walking archive of obscure brilliance. This ear candy is a full-blown audio haunt.

Think vintage horror soundtracks, deep-cut mood pieces, eerie spoken word and strangely beautiful sonic moments that somehow make you feel transported and unsettled at the same time. Listening in had quickly became my Sunday evening ritual since I first discovered it.

Rob's curation feels like what would happen if a vintage record shop and a haunted speakeasy had a baby, and that baby grew up to make playlists for people who like their vibes a little strange yet stunning.

One night, caught up in my “immersive autumn experience”, I decided to listen outside in the hot tub.

Red lights glowing, steam rolling off the water, mocktail in one hand, stars above with a full harvest moon, my version of a cinematic evening.

By about track three, something shifted. The air got still, the trees quieted, and an eerie instrumental piece crept into the mix.

I scared myself enough to launch out as if on a catapult, which was impressive, but more so because bear season makes you move faster.

Somewhere along the way, we start believing that joy has to be practical to be justified. That if it isn’t productive, efficient, or attached to a measurable outcome, it’s frivolous. But these small fixations—the scents, the treats, the sounds, the rituals, they are regulators. They remind our nervous systems that pleasure doesn’t need permission, and that curiosity doesn’t expire with age. Letting ourselves delight in something purely because it lights us up is often the most grounded thing we can do.

I am finding this chapter of my life is about giving myself full permission to be unapologetically excited about, and obsessed with, things that bring me back to life.

A vintage scent.
An espresso-drenched scoop of vanilla bean ice cream.
A new podcast.
A drive to DQ that feels like love without saying a word.

We spend so much time being selfless, efficient, reasonable, it's okay to make room for the joys that hit all five senses.

If this era smells like vintage perfume, tastes like espresso, and ends with a good scare under a fall moon, I'll stay happily obsessed.

Affogato?

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