Tauerade...Is It Real?

I've been doing a lot of thinking.

Let me be clear:  I Want to Love Tauer Perfumes. 

I do I do I do.

However, after testing three of them on my skin, multiple times, the final drydown results are:

Lonestar Memories:  A&W Root Beer

L'air du Desert Marocain:  SL's Fumerie Turque over chopped dates

Incense Rose:  Aspirin mashed up with strawberry preserves

What sucks is that I selected these perfumes only after reading numerous descriptions and reviews.  Samples were deliberately purchased, and I hotly anticipated their arrival. 

Truth is, I'm bummed.

For those of you who have broader exposure to Tauer perfumes, I must know:  Do they all share this sweet/sour base?  

Is Tauerade real?

Mousse de saxe and Guerlinade, two famous perfume bases, add both distinction and depth to many Caron and Guerlain perfumes, respectively.  Love them or hate them, they make olfactory sense.  

But instead of gaining interest and complexity upon drydown, the Tauer perfumes I have listed wimp out on my skin and morph into something resembling...cough syrup.  

Has anyone else experienced this?

Picture from fotosearch.com

Journals and Other Double Edged Swords

My mother left years worth of journals when she died.  She was a woman who took notes on almost everything; movies, books and conferences.  Until now, I was not ready to read her journals, even though my father had offered them to me and to my siblings.  But my grief has taken a shift, and I am prepared to begin the journey of knowing more about my mother's inner life.

Yesterday, B-man, Paige and I went to visit my father and I came home with two of Mom's journals.  As Dad gave them to me, I was overwhelmed by the reality of her death.  I always knew that someday I would read them, but to arrive at that day was a reality check and a moment of intense sadness.  Dad and I cried together in Mom's study.

My relationship with Mom was complex, like many mothers and daughters.  Reading her words, I understand better just how much we are alike.  Most of what I'm reading is enlightening. 

Some sections, reflecting turbulent times, are painful. 

Other passages make me laugh out loud. 

Mostly, I'm struck by how little we actually know of what goes on in one's mind and how much of our lives we keep to ourselves, locked away and private.

Mom was a very private person, and yet - as her journal reflects - she longed for greater connection, acceptance and friendship with others.  Today, I'm wondering if I should have done a better job of providing that.  But frequently, I was caught up in my own life, especially when there was distance - both geographical and emotional - between us.

What strikes me now is how quickly our lives pass.  Yesterday, my father and I went through boxes my mother left behind; stories and pictures of her own father (my grandfather), handwritten letters from him, a journal from his second wife and notes to him from my mother.  

All of them, once vibrantly alive, are now gone.  

How grateful I am that Mom left these journals so that we can know and remember the woman she was.  Her words, in her instantly recognizable handwriting, will provide history and context yet again when they are discovered in a box, many years from now.

Today is a time of reflection.  No perfume.

Picture: Motherhood by Picasso from Google images

Buying Perfume During Happy Hour

Paige in the pouring rain, refusing to come in the house

Don't stay in the rain and get all wet!

And don't buy perfume during Happy Hour.

We have had this discussion before.

Otherwise, after a couple of glasses of wine, you may decide that you desperately need a new bottle of Montale's Black Aoud simply because it's back in stock at Luckyscent. 

So what if I intended to wait until our Denver trip next week to buy any more perfume?  I justify it by telling B-man, 'No, no, no, this is my Birthday Perfume and it doesn't count against my annual perfume budget.'

Besides, B-man would enjoy the decant of Black Aoud I'm still working on.  As an only child, he needs the experience of hand-me-downs, don't you think?

I keep waiting for him to side with Inner Critic and agree that I have acted irresponsibly and need closer monitoring.  But here's the thing about B-man: He always wants more nice things for me than I want for myself, and he encourages me to take pleasure in buying something I love...or simply want.

'Oh, yeah, of course, I almost forgot,' he says, all earnest, and then we laugh at each other and at Paige lying in the rain. 

Ode to Patchouli 24 by Le Labo

Gasoline Spilled on Leather

Sweet Morning Breath

Motorcycle Jacket in Mothballs

Fresh Baked Dinner Rolls

Cold Chimney

Second Hand Cigar Smoke

Oil Painting Studio

Picture from Luckyscent.com

Sycomore on the First Day of School

School started today.  Tonight's weather is cool, and the crisp air smells of nostalgia and new beginnings.   

Scent of the Day is Sycomore by Chanel.

I first encountered Sycomore in Seattle, then bought the huge-ass bottle in NYC a couple of weeks later.  

When I mentioned to the sales associate in Bergdorf that I had tested Sycomore in Seattle, she questioned me repeatedly, eyes squinting, 'really?'  'Are you sure it was Sycomore?'  Like some classified military UFO file had been exposed.  Like no one else on earth but Bergdorf had top secret clearance.  Like I was a freaking moron.

Yeah, I'm sure.

At Nordstrom, in Seattle, a woman I had never met was also shopping for perfume and we became Sniffing Buddies for an hour or so.  I sprayed Sycomore on a paper strip first.  Not sure that I loved it, I continued with the other Les Exclusifs (yes, Nordstrom was carrying those, too - really - all except Beige, which I have yet to sample).  For whatever reason, Sycomore kept inviting me back until I had to try it on my skin.

Total Perfume Porn. 

Instead of the bitterness that is sometimes associated with vetiver, I get honey smoke, burning autumn leaves and incense.  

My new buddy, overhearing me rave about Sycomore, tried it on her skin, too. Honestly, it didn't even smell like the same perfume.  On her it was grassy, green and more bitter with a touch of fresh cut hay.

Of course, if I was going to pay the outrageous price for the hilariously large bottle, I had to wear it for several hours to see what happened when the base notes showed up.  Luckily, they held true, adding just a touch of sandalwood. 

Today, Sycomore is reminding me of another time.  

Hikes in the Canyon.

Dutch oven dinners.  

First day of school. 

That magical space where memory and scent reside.


Pictures from Fotosearch and Fragrantica.com

Shopping and Chanel No.19: The Sequel

Friday could not come soon enough this week.  Between keeping up my schedule and allowing ample time for pouting over my lost promotion, I was exhausted.  

Feeling the need for some retail therapy, my sister and I went shopping.  

Thank god she was there.

Otherwise, I would stumble from rack to rack, trying on clothes that are the wrong fit, wrong color and wrong style.  Shopping with a buddy insures that the sales associate won't have to call B-man to report that his wife is lying on the floor in a fetal position and would he please come and pick her up.

Unlike me, my sister has a great eye for style, color, fit and fashion in general.  Shopping with her looked something like this:

Me: Holding up a shirt, 'Is this ugly?'  (No kidding, I'm that clueless.)

My sister: 'No, but that color makes your face look red because it has a yellow base.'

Me: 'Does this jacket look good?'

My sister:  'Not really, because the waist is in the wrong place.  It needs to be a little higher or lower, but the way it is now cuts you in half.'

Me:  'You really like these pants?'

My sister:  'Yes, because the slim leg makes you look taller.  And skinny.'

Huh.  I had no idea.  Of course, I bought the pants, because I am neither tall nor skinny.  

(You know the 80% off  'reject clothes that are built too funny to actually fit anyone' rack?  They usually fit me.)

Giddiness followed my purchase of a few stylish pieces that fit right and didn't make me look red-faced.  This victory meant there was only one thing left to do: the Chanel counter.  

Knowing that No.19 trumps Cristalle on my skin, I spritzed and - thanks to my sister's connections - scored a biggie sample to take home.  For some reason, I was not as enamored with No.19 as I was after my bra shopping triumph.  In fact, until the base notes kicked in, almost two hours later, I considered scrubbing because I couldn't handle its bitchiness. 

Blasphemy, I know.  It's supposed to be bitchy.

The good news is that I scored samples of both Chance Eau Tendre and Bleu de Chanel.  I'll be testing them soon, but something tells me that neither will make my heart sing.

Still, my shopping giddy lives on.  Thanks, baby sis.

Pictures from fotosearch.com and BD Fragrance Line

Wet People Smelling Bad

Today was our Big Annual Barbecue at the hospital.  You know, the one I was supposed to MC but instead passed it on as an 'opportunity' to one of my directors. 

Fortunately, blackmail was not required.

It rained like a mother.  Everything was under a tent, but it began pouring as we were standing in line for food.  Shelter was spotty so we all got wet. 

People stink when they're wet.

Nothing 'outs' one's personal hygiene like a little rain.  Clouds of stale, unwashed body aroma surrounded me.  I was standing behind a guy that looked well-groomed, but when it rained, he smelled pissy and sour.  

What IS that?

He might as well have been wearing a t-shirt that said, 'This Rainstorm is the First Shower I've had in Three Days.'  And if the top half of his body smelled that bad, imagine what his arse...

Did I really say that?

By the time we reached the food, I was longing for a tent full of wet puppies, which may have been more appetizing.  

On a positive note, Agent Provocateur smells as good in the rain as it does in the office.





Pictures from fotosearch.com