Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Sephora is one of my favorite stores, an ironic thing when you consider I barely wear makeup. (My extra morning minutes are spent under the covers, not in front of the mirror.) But I do love the idea of makeup – all those magical elixirs, lotions, balms and salves designed to make women look real purty.
At Sephora you can get an adorable little sample of anything you want: eye firming treatments, hydrating gel masks, fine-line reducers and pore minimizers. (Men must be so jealous of all the wonderful opportunities women have to spend money on their faces.)
Sephora also will let you take home any fragrance in a tiny trial pump … which at last brings me to the point of this post.
Mmm …. you smell like … a jerk
Last time I was in the cloud nine of cosmetics, I meandered in the perfume section. Sniffing aimlessly, I noticed a rather unusual assortment of product names. The most striking? Insolence by Guerlain. Now, I know the creators of this scent are French – a culture known for its brashness – but do they think women really want to dab a “contemptuously rude or impertinent” scent on their pulse points? I sure don’t. But then, I’m not French.
Dior offers up a tonic called Addict, which purports to “indulge the senses with sumptuous silk tree flower and voluptuous night queen flower, plus subtle hints of self-annihilation, degradation and profound shame.” (OK, I added that last part, but I bet you’ll be hooked after just one sniff of this stuff.)
Dior also brings us Hypnotic Poison. Are we supposed to spray it on our wrists or serve it to Sleeping Beauty? This intoxicating scent is “an unsettling harmony, a fusion of contrasting olfactory facets.” (As someone with a stronger than average vocabulary, I have no idea what this is supposed to mean. But again, I’m not French.) If you’re interested in poisonous substances but you don’t believe in hypnosis, don’t worry. Dior can set you up with Pure Poison and Midnight Poison, too.
While I’d prefer not to dabble in insolence, addictions and poison, I have to assume a number of female consumers are more liberal in their perfume selections than I. And because I fancy myself an altruist, I have created a modest list of names to complement the rude/fatal vibe of the scents identified above. Persons employed in the marketing departments of the above-named perfumeries may use these suggestions as they see fit. I don’t mind.
- Churlish (or Churlíche, if a French pronunciation makes it somehow better)
Kind of gives of a whole new meaning to the idea of a "nasty smell," don't you think?
If you have other ideas to share, feel free to reply to this post. The French will thank you.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
My week began with some serious roller-skating. And I skated with a boy! And he told me he loved me, like, three times! OK, so said boy was my five-year-old son, but still, he was really cute and his hands were soft and not at all sweaty.
This was actually my second roller-skating excursion in as many weeks. But before then, I’d only hit the rink once or twice since my skating heyday in ’85. So when I rolled out onto that wooden floor in my too-tight skates, it was like gliding back in time. The smells of feet and grease ... the cinderblock walls accented with neon solar-system-patterned carpet … the cocky rink “refs” with their whistles and black-and-white-striped shirts.
Even the sounds were straight outta the latter part of the 1980s. Tone Loc and Young MC turned up on the hi-fi, and Cameo made, well, a cameo. WORD UP, man!
While I scuttled around in circles (valiantly helping my kids fend off the forces of gravity), I rubbernecked at several other “adults” who must’ve also hit rewind on the last two decades. First there was the balding dad in jeans (it was dark, but I think they were acid-washed with front pleats!), who exhibited perfect right-leg-over-left moves as he rounded the corners. He was not to be outdone by the spiky-haired mom who would periodically shift her weight back on her right leg while lifting her left toe to smoothly coast. Soooooo cool.
Then what happens the very next night, but it turns out to be ’80s week on “American Idol,” and I get to go back to my favorite decade again! True, I was disappointed not to hear anyone attempt Duran Duran or Eurythmics or Depeche Mode, but Luke Menard thoughtfully brought Wham! into my living room. I had that song on 45 (45!) and I once possessed a “Choose LIFE” T-shirt just like the one George Michael wore in the video! Weird wild stuff.
The boys’ performances (sigh) made me half-wish I still had a locker, so I could clip pics of Jason Castro, David Cook and Michael Johns out of my Tiger Beat and tape ’em up right next to C. Thomas Howell and the guy who played Jake in Sixteen Candles.
Of course, to fully relive the 1980s, I’d also need to starve myself down to a bony 90 pounds, get a really bad Ogilvie home perm and share both my clothes and my bedroom with my sister. Gag me with a spoon ….