I've gone on (and on, and on) about how much I love Riddle Oil's pheromone-based scents - I discovered them about a year and a half ago, when my mom and I stopped into a little boutique in Malibu filled with many, many things that I wanted to own but could not afford. My mom felt similarly, but nevertheless decided to try on everything in the store, so I ended up wandering around by the cash register, picking various things up and putting them back down while trying to keep my children from doing the same, and one of the things I picked up was this little rollerball perfume oil from a company I’d never heard of called “Riddle.”

I couldn’t put my finger on what, exactly, it smelled like, but I was instantly OBSESSED, to the point where I flagged down the woman who was standing in the corner folding $300 t-shirts to ask her about it. She had virtually no information to offer me and had seemingly never noticed it even sitting there in the shop, so I figured it was some ultra boutique-y oil made by, like, the owner’s friend.

And then, two weeks later, I was still thinking about that scent. Which is…I mean, that’s weird. Right? I don’t usually find myself thinking about scents period, and certainly not about random Malibu rollerball oils. But I’d simply never smelled anything quite like this. I wish I could describe it to you, but…I can’t. It just smells exactly like how I want to smell. It smells like when you’re in love with someone, and you snuggle into their neck, and the way they smell makes you want to stay there for hours.

 

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Me, with one of the cars that I killed

I grew up in what you could call a "car family," if you wanted to make the understatement of the century. Throughout my childhood my father owned a series of Porsches, all of which he cleaned both before and after driving - to my significant consternation, because he insisted on involving me in these omg, very extensive cleaning sessions. The idea of introducing a single atom of food into his vehicle gave me heart palpitations. Touch the windows, or any spot on the exterior save for the handle? Enter without a thorough cleansing of my shoes? I don't think so.

So it is with considerable disappointment that my father views my own car-related proclivities, which is that I kill them. Like, kill them dead. The first car I owned when I moved out to LA was a Chrysler LeBaron convertible with red velvet seats. I adored that car, and then I killed it by not realizing that there was a thing called "oil," and that it needed to be addressed on occasion. My most recent car I killed by mayyyybe driving over a curb that was mayyyyybe quite high, and mayyyyybe destroying the transmission. (And let's not forget about this little incident.) I do very much enjoy the car I have now, though - goodness gracious, it is lovely - and so I have turned into a mini replica of my father in some regards ("GET. THE SLIME. OUT OF MY CAR"). We'll see how long that lasts.

Please click over to my IG to understand the miracle happening in this pic

One day last January, during school dropoff, a car pulled up next to me, and a man's head poked out. "You're the one with the Tom Fords," he said. This was an odd thing to hear from a person you've never met.

"You need to give them to me," he said.

The jeans made it on eventually, but it was NOT a pretty process.

Over the weekend, I went into American Eagle to pick up a bra. The clerk asked me what size I was, and I told her that I honestly had no idea, because nothing about my body is as it was the last time I shopped IRL (say, oh, a year ago). When she measured me, it turned out that I am...um...bigger.

On Tuesday, my kids and I played hooky and drove up to Santa Barbara. After sushi and ice cream, I bribed them with my phone so I could spend a few minutes browsing in a consignment shop. I need new denim shorts, because denim shorts are my thing, and my denim shorts don't fit. The clerk asked me what size I was, and I gave her what I thought was a decent range.

Me and Dad, 2016, somewhere in California. (Photo by my son.)

My father, as with many men of a particular generation, can be a tough nut to crack. He's just so opaque.

A holiday - a birthday, say - arises. A question is voiced - "Is there anything you want?" And the response, every. single. time?