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2001-06-06 | 10:05 a.m.

Lipstick kisses on the bathroom mirror this morning. Cute, sure, but it also means a five-year-old has been using my favorite lipstick.

On the freeway this morning, two cars converged in a narrow lane. A gold Corolla with a glamorous young woman driver passed me at high speed, coming up too quick on a stately, slow-going Buick, midnight blue, with a bumper sticker taped inside the back window that said, "Pray the Rosary." Almost bumped it. Fishtail and taillights. The Corolla's license plate read NS8SABL.

Stepping into the elevator at my mother's building, I was assaulted by an invisible person's perfume. Wanted to scold the woman who was not there for dousing herself in it. Hope for others' sake she isn't a carpooler. Even checked the floor to see if it was wet, thinking perhaps a bottle had spilled.

Sometimes my mother makes the same mistake because she can't smell. But not lately. In years past, my mother sprayed her hair with furniture polish and Spray 'N' Wash. They just happened to be under the bathroom sink, and she grabbed without looking. Also has sprayed hairspray in her armpits.

I haven't worn perfume in years. I told you I've become a hippie in my old age. I like the smell of real people. I do have perfume packed up around here somewhere. Chanel No. 5 and a bottle of eau de toilette someone brought me from Paris---that was my favorite. Can't remember the name of it now.

I know it's crazy but I think I can still smell that elevator perfume. Maybe it's in my hair?

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