Ode to Narcisse Noir by Caron

Black Licorice

Movie Theater

Sleigh Ride

Charcoal Portrait

Peach Upside Down Cake

Ponytail Elastics

Indoor Swimming Pool

Picture from Fragrantica.com

Mom's Lotion

Me, JD and Dad on the deck after dark

Dad came for a visit last weekend for the first time since Mom died.  Everyone was over Friday evening for Soup Night.  Out on the deck we talk, reminisce, laugh and drink wine.

Dad still sees Mom everywhere that they have been together.  She was in our home not that long ago. 

He spends the night Friday.  B-man and I wake up early Saturday because we're both morning geeks.  When JD was little, he would yell, from his bedroom across the hall, 'Guys, be quiet, I'm trying to sleep!'  This is understandable because B-man and I were awake, talking and laughing well before the alarm went off.  

Luckily, Dad is also a morning person, and I hear him rambling around downstairs early, long before he comes up for coffee.

Then, I hear the shower running.

Soon, he emerges, squeaky clean and cute as anything in khaki pants and a deep blue collared shirt.  When he reaches the top of the stairs, we greet each other and hug.  He smells good, but not like cologne, just fresh.

We're sitting on the deck - over coffee - in the cool mountain air when Dad says, 'Did you notice Mom's lotion?  I put it on this morning after I showered.'

'I just noticed you smell good,' I say.

'Well, it was on her make-up table, so I brought it with me,' Dad says.  'I missed her so much last night and this morning, I can hardly stand it.'  

The depth of Dad's loss and loneliness, after 53 years of marriage, is more than I can comprehend.

'Tell me about her lotion, Dad, what kind is it?'  He insists on finding the bottle and reading the label.  'It's Optimism Aromatherapy by Bath and Body Works.'

'The scent is Bright Blossoms,' he says.

I am touched by his attempt to channel Mom through wearing a scent he must have smelled on her many times.  He doesn't care if it smells like flower blossoms, it reminds him of her.

Watching my father endure great pain and slowly emerge again has emphasized what I've always loved about him; his kindness, his open mind and his resilience.  Getting to know him again now, as we all rebuild and regroup, is one of the great gifts of my life.

Thank you, Dad, for your sweet remembrance of 
our mother.

Picture taken by B-man last Friday

Twirling For Perfume

 

For the first time in years, there is no perfume that I Simply Must Have.

Nope, I'm good.

After receiving three discount coupons from my favorite online perfume stores, I still think, 'meh.' 

Usually, this is a big deal.  I fill my online shopping cart, rotating items for days before making the purchase right before the sale ends. Then, I track the shipment obsessively and, once it arrives, I clutch the package to my breast and twirl around the kitchen.

Okay, that's an exaggeration.

I don't always rotate the items.

Trying to understand exactly what my current disinterest means, I have formulated several theories:

1)  I have more full bottles, decants and samples of perfume than I can possibly test, wear or write about.  Suddenly, this seems relevant.

2)  I'm overwhelmed (and underwhelmed) by the volume of new perfume releases and bored with smelling the same thing (floral, fruity, woodsy, musky) over and over again.

3)  I've rediscovered perfumes that I haven't worn for a long time, like Angel Lily, Kenzo Flower Parfum and Escada Collection.  All of these are more interesting than many of the new releases.

Honestly, I do miss the thrill of the pursuit, and the sheer pleasure of knowing a package is waiting for me on the kitchen counter.  But even at 10% off, I'm feeling a bit ho-hum about buying anything new.

Waiting for the twirling urge to return.

Picture from Fotosearch.com

Angel Lily: The Path To Reinvention

Lately, I've been in the mood to reinvent myself.  Perhaps it's the changing seasons or just general restlessness, but I want to feel new.  Different.  

For starters, I'm growing my hair, not because it feels like the perfect thing, but because I lack inspiration at the moment.

Reinvention through complacency.

Kinda works for me.

Attempting to express my new passive motivation, I decide to wear a perfume that I have pushed to the back shelf: Angel Lily (Le Lys).

Generally, I avoid flankers.  While there are a few that dodge the 'we made money on the first perfume, so what the hell, let's put it out there' mold, most leave me yawning and rubbing my eyes.

Exceptions?  Hypnotic Poison, Kelly Caleche and perhaps Chanel No. 5 Eau Premiere.

But J-Lo just needs to stop it already.

Angel, Lily's mother perfume, is hideous on me.  So bad, in fact, that it has earned the title my sisters and I reserve for those rare times when perfume & body chemistry produce a scent atrocity:  Old Lady Butts, or OLBs.

I'm over 50 so I can say that.

And don't get all nervous, this assessment is courtesy of my nose's imagination.

Angel Lily is the antithesis of Angel.  It's fresh (minty) and floral, gingerbread men with white chocolate buttons and the finest touch of patchouli.  Plus, the bottle is beautiful.

B-man loves this perfume - he always did - but I haven't worn it for probably two years.

'You smell different and really, really good,' he says this morning in our guess-the-perfume ritual.  

Ah, Different achieved.

Perhaps, in the end, reinvention isn't always about creating something new, but simply returning to what works.

I'm still growing my hair.

Picture from Fragrancenet.com

You Do What?

Random perfume discussions are streaking through my life at odd moments lately.  Some of those are satisfying, and some are just...weird.

Take Friday, for example.

I arrive at work to find that one of my directors has on the very same color scheme that I do.  Black pants, a black top and a wine colored jacket.  We laugh about this with the usual "'ah, you got the memo!' pleasantries. 

'That's so girly to compare clothes, shoes and purses!' my colleague says.

'Huh,' I think, because I don't usually notice much about other women's clothing, shoes or purses.  In fact, my sister pulled me aside several months ago to say, discretely, 'you need better purses.'  So I bought better purses, but god knows when I would have thought of that on my own.

Girlyland is just not a place I hang out much.

'I know you're girly because you like perfume,' my co-worker says.

'Actually, a lot of men are into perfume, too,' I respond.

'Don't you mean cologne?'

'Well, many of us see perfume as genderless - we wear it all.'

She looks at me  - her head cocked like a confused puppy -  as if I have lost my mind and temporarily forgotten The Natural Order of Things. 

Realizing the extent of explanation that would be necessary to set her head straight again, I start wondering how I can silently back out of the room and act as if the conversation never happened.  

Miraculously, my pager goes off, giving me an easy exit.

Usually, I enjoy sharing information about perfume with others.  But sometimes, it feels like explaining space travel to a caveman.

Picture from fotosearch.com

Ode to Ambre Sultan by Serge Lutens

Rusty Bicycle

Pralines & Cream

Melting Plastic

Beringer Chardonnay 

 Bird Cage

Roach Clip

Campground at Night

Pictures from strawberrynet.com

Jitterbug Perfume Shame

Today, I attend a conference and end up sitting by a colleague who worked with me when my role was different in the hospital.  We lost touch, but have no trouble picking up right where we left off.

At one point in the conversation, my friend says, 'what are you doing outside of work these days?'

I talk about family, recent travel, and then reveal my perfume hobbit (hobby + habit = hobbit).

Pausing for a brief fantasy about perfumed Hobbits...

'Wow, that's so cool,' she says, and begins asking me all sorts of questions about perfume.  

Because of Inner Critic - killjoy that he is - I'm always surprised when non-perfume people want to engage in conversation about this obsession.  As of today, I will expect a positive response and be surprised when that doesn't happen.

'Have you read Jitterbug Perfume?' she asks.  

What the hell?

Jitterbug Perfume, by Tom Robbins, is a perfumista cult classic.  How is it that she has read this and I haven't?

Responses to her question race through my mind:

'Yes, of course.'

'As soon as I finish The Emperor of  Scent.'

'I just started it last night.'

'What perfumista hasn't read Jitterbug Perfume?'

All lies, of course.

What I say, instead, is the shameful truth.  'I tried to read it awhile ago, but the print was so small that I got annoyed and quit.'

Crickets.

Then finally, she says, 'What about a book on tape?'

Well, maybe, but that would require paying attention and silencing the chaos in my head.  I can imagine listening for 30 minutes only to realize that...what was I saying about Hobbits?

Reading actually suits me best and Jitterbug Perfume is the next book on my list.

Just as soon as I find it in large print.

Picture from opusoils.com