Fragrance du jour, recent sniffs, random notes.
The alarm goes off bright and early with vodka drizzled fresh fruit, then takes a shower with lily-of-the-valley body shampoo, and after that, the roses get pruned. The dishes are done before the laundry gets hung on the clothes line, and then comes the hardwood floor sanding, so the dust needs a wet mopping, and the musky rugs should be aired out while we’re at it–
I’ve only been wearing this two hours and I’m exhausted.
*
This is my kind of lazy Sunday morning.
A powder burst opening, chalk clouds of green violet and a mimosa pollen bomb, that slowly settles to social distance with brassy cedar sawdust.
Orris drifts in with smooth musk–Insolence‘s iris grown out of her silly fruity sweetness–and hovers a foot off the skin all day long.
Leans to the well-groomed boss end of the spectrum.
Inspired by jazz saxophone notes and Chris Collins’ father’s violet colognes. I get the “Blue” in the name, but I have no idea what Tokyo has to do with any of it–but I’ve never been there.
Not badly priced for a well-performing niche fragrance.
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Wayne Shorter died the other day. He played sax on a lot of amazing stuff–including my junior high personal anthem by Joni Mitchell, Be Cool.
Green pears and ginger musk with some synthetic rosebuds in between.
Shy inside personal space for a quiet morning and drifts down to wet woods on the skin.
Unassuming and uninspiring.
First Base is a much more intriguing woody pear.
*
It’s pouring out.
Tea-time lingerie.
A splash of milky Earl Grey bergamot with a bit of fresh fruit on the side–a flirty opening that quickly gets shy, retreating to a hand-span off the skin, cologne weight–but it lasts for over half the day with a constant tease of voluptuous florals and bit of wood inside clothing.
There’s a brilliant stilted sexiness to it that’s hard to explain, kind of like art house porn that’s been edited to a PG-13 rating.
I might hang onto this one for a while.
*
More tea.
The almond turns into nutty field grains and the cotton into cardboard–exactly like the bottom of a can of Old Fashioned Oats.
The label touts the word “Comforting” in several languages–and a nice bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar and cinnamon is a lovely comfort food–but sadly this has none of that indulgence.
Healthy, dusty and earnest.
*
A more fun Cotton.
Air opens with a raging chimney blaze put out with Lapsang Souchong tea, with smoke that takes over the entire house, and slowly melts into alpine mist on the skin overnight.
I like the finish, but the beginning is hard to breathe.
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After the whomp on the head with several big trees–and a few apple bruises–the resins of the previous editions swing in, but they’re much tamer now.
The bleach, musk and pee have been cleaned up with cider and polished with more frankincense, and the woods lounge just inside personal space for a long hot afternoon.
He’s still a cheeky monkey, but at least there’s no feces being flung anymore.
*
Another monkey edition:
Nocturnal short order cook.
Remember the guy who was the night closer at that blue-plate-special Cajun joint?
He was quiet and always smelled like dish soap, the étouffée spice mix–made of dried green herbs and woody thyme–and the dusting sugar that went on the beignets. No-one ever saw him in the daylight, but everybody liked him.
Black Widow has almost no projection and lasts as long as a dinner break.
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New Orleans native Fats Domino revamped Junker’s Blues into The Fat Man–which became the first rock and roll single to sell a million copies–here’s a version of the original by Hugh Laurie.
Perfect for young teen things who still decorate their bedrooms with twinkle lights and ruffled throw pillows, but whose musical tastes are surprisingly quite refined.
Opens with orange juice and pink pepper, then settles into a nice peach Hawaiian Ice–that really wants to be a Bellini when she’s old enough to drink–inside social distance, and ends after a few giggly hours of sheer vanilla musk on the skin.
Cute and lighthearted, but not silly.
*
Isla Crall is a very impressive young woman.
Shirley Temple cough drops–medicinal grenadine, sweet and mentholated–that fade by the time the lozenge melts.
The combination shouldn’t work. Camphor and red fruit should be dissonant, but here they ring bright and clarifying and joyful.
I love it–not to wear, it’s too ridiculously cheerful–but my entire house, my linens and my gifts will all smell like this next holiday season.
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John Wick and Wednesday both sample Vivaldi’s Four seasons.
It’s still winter here.
kira a. gold 