There is a perfume I hate so much, I would rather have a baby's dirty diaper or a carton of year old milk shoved up my nose than be in the vicinity of a person wearing it. Unfortunately, the name of this scent must remain nameless as a few people I love dearly actually wear it. And while most of the time, I may not be the subtlest person in hiding my thoughts or emotions, somehow I have managed NOT to drop the hint on this subject. In fact, quite the opposite. I am the asshole who upon recognizing the smell, says knowingly "Oh, are you wearing -----?" The offender will inevitably flash a giant smile, tell me what an astute nose I have, and assume I'm commenting because of my love for this devil juice. I want to scream, "NOOOOOOOOOO! I am speaking because it is the only alternative to projectile vomiting! That shit smells like a melted-down candy bar mixed into a bottle of maple syrup and then atomized! Please go wash off your neck/wrists/kneecaps/genitals...wherever you put it and then maybe we can have a civil conversation without me dry-heaving every 5 seconds." But, of course, I choose the more polite route of tolerating time spent with the offender and then snarkily blogging about it now.
But seriously...this scent needs to be stopped. I recently read in a magazine that it's longstanding popularity has made it a "classic". What the hell? How can something that makes people walk around smelling like a case of baked goods be thrown in the same category as Chanel No. 5? And by the way, I have since found out I am not the only one who feels this way. My friend Tom and I recently bonded over this mutual hatred as if we were both abused kids who had finally found our fellow 'Luka'in eachother. Tom, while straight, is as much of a scent snob as I am, demanding I smell his wrist every time I see him. Inevitably, I inhale a delicious, unique potion that he tells me has been concocted by Monks in some remote monastery and only 5 bottles a year are sold or something in that ridiculous vein. Tom is not messing around. So, when I brought up my distaste for this simple syrup which masquerades as a perfume, Tom screamed with delight and recognition. He said he has actually broken up with women who wear it and had meals ruined because of it's simple presence in the air.
So, I have no real way to wrap up this post. Except to say that Tom and I are clearly not the only ones who feel this passionately about anonymous scent. I just found a great post on a site called "Basenotes.net" (I know) and I will leave you with the words of this sublime genius who calls him/herself 'Marmica'... And to protect the unknowing perpetrators, I have continued to blank out the name of the scent:
The bottle, idea, and concept amaze me. I simply had so much hope in this fragrance.
However, once I sampled, at first, I was revolted. I was so shocked, I nearly hurled.
With tears in my eyes and a scrub brush, I tried to get the vile substance off.
But no, it would not budge. And so, I sat indoors, disgusted by the puke cloud of cotton candy and fluffy rainbows.
It enveloped me, tore at how terribly naive I was to fall for another ' classic '.
And then, the storms faded as I experimentally sniffed my wrist a while later.
The vomit sugar bomb had gone, and was replaced with warming comfort.
Honey rang through my senses, and just the right play of a battle between vanilla and chocolate.
I smelt edible, delicious, tolerable, and mysterious yet playful as the caramel then sang.
Once the relief of the mid tones had faded, it settled into a charming musky drift to sleep.
I had never experienced such emotion in the time frame of two hours, hunched over in a daze of wonder.
I love -----. I hate -----. I will, for those reasons, never wear it again.
Instead, I will gift the bottle to a dear friend, whose smile at times will annoy and comfort me to no end.
A match suitable, I find, because -----'s love is far too fickle for my senses.
And if by some fluke I do wear her grace again, I will note not to visit anywhere public for at least an hour.
Like a dancer tumbling through the curtains and making an awkward arrival, the top notes are putrid but the aftershow of base and middle are enchanting and pleasant.
But you'd never do it more than once. Or twice.
So ends my experimentation with sickly sweet and dangerous gourmands such as -----.
How I will miss those days and cherish the never occurring return of them.
As a drug addict looks back on ' those days ', I cannot judge -----.
Only ----- can judge one such as myself.
