It wasn’t until Monday afternoon that I realized it was the first of March.  March always sneaks up on me.  This year January and February lasted approximately nine years.  But that FAIL post on Monday was fun, eh?    I think everyone emerged in good spirits.

Today I’m blogging about Cartier Les Heures (I)- L’Heure Promise, which is the iris one, which has been criticized (not inaccurately) as wearing lightly, somewhat like Prada Infusion d’Iris, and if that bores you – just please stick around just for this tangential pre-review part of the discussion and then I’ll unlock the door.

The Prada Infusion d’Iris and Narciso Rodriquez EDT were two scents I could not smell, and by could not smell I mean: as far as I was concerned, that NR bottle had water in it.  The IdI I could smell, sort of – just enough to snicker and wonder who would pay good money for it.  It was so … nothing-y.

But I ran into a couple of recurring problems.  First off, “Narciso Rodriguez!” was frequently the answer I received when I asked somebody what nice fragrance they were wearing.  Granted, at that point there were already at least three variations, the oil, the EDP and the EDT, but they were all the same to me – water.  So apparently I could smell it on other people.  Maybe twice a month for a year (or two) I’d try NR on in the store and shrug – nothing.  I joked with a few of the SAs about its lack of aroma, and you could tell they thought I was nuts.  And then … I could smell it.  And I loved it.  I added it to my wallpaper list.  I bought a full bottle (and paid retail! Can you imagine!?)  And now, almost a year after that, as unlikely as it sounds, there are times when NR EDT can be … a bit much, with that orange blossom/synthetic haze, like somebody stepping on the guitar amp pedal too aggressively.

Infusion d’Iris I also kept smelling around me, and I recognized it – it’s distinctive, and a popular scent in my city, being discreet and rather staid.  I also became, over a year or two, increasingly sensitized to its smell.  It’s never overpowering, and it has a charming way of fading and reappearing.  The only reason I don’t own a bottle yet is that somehow I keep winding up with free samples.

So my thoughtful, learned question is: what the hell? If you expose your nose often enough to something you’re anosmic to, can you “learn” to smell it?   If you can learn to smell something, can you unlearn it?   Why should my brain start to perceive these scents after many, many attempts?  Has this ever happened to you?   I recall seeing somewhere (I think it was in comments on a Grain de Musc post) that some folks layer Les Nez L’Antimatière on top of other fragrances, even though they can’t smell it at all, because they enjoy its reflected glow.  (Didn’t Isabelle Doyen do it?  So it can’t just be some cheap trick like Iso E Super, can it?)  They can perceive it only in juxtaposition to something else.  I really need to dig out my sample, at the time it seemed very Emperor’s-new-clothes to me.

So. Cartier L’Heure Promise has notes of petitgrain, fresh herbs, iris, sandalwood and musk.  It’s pretty quiet, as I said, a la Infusion d’Iris, and if you can’t smell that, well, likely you can’t smell this one either.  However, if you can smell it, and you have a bit of patience, it’s a treat.   The petitgrain, with that citrus/baby aspirin smell, magnifies the spicy/rooty qualities of the iris.  Unlike some iris scents, it is entirely free of both powder and that sharp/metallic aspect that I find offputting.  And then!  The sandalwood!   Okay, fine, I got interested in sandalwood at a laughably bad time, right after all the cheap n’ glorious Mysore stuff disappeared and I guess from here on out it’s either Australian or  chemical fakery with a big TM symbol after it, like SANDALIDE or what have you (not that there’s anything wrong with that!)   In Promise, it takes a few minutes for the sandalwood to start to emerge, and no, it’s not going to bring you to your knees weeping in astonishment.  However.  The scent’s constructed in a way I love, with the two parts – the iris and the sandalwood – appearing alternately, like two actors popping on and off the stage, one chasing after the other.  It does another Prada Infusion thing – it’s often easier to detect in the air around me than sniffing the spot I sprayed it on, and the entire scent will seem to disappear completely for ten or twenty minutes, and then – whoosh! – it’s back.    It doesn’t have quite the tenacity of IdI – and no, that’s not a joke, if you can smell it, really, it’s quite tenacious, and on fabric it lasts for days.  If I put Promise on in the early evening, which I’ve been enjoying doing (it’s rather meditative and soothing), I can still smell it the next morning.

So here’s a final happy aspect of L’Heure Promise – iris and sandalwood as a combination.  Or, looked at another way, a sandalwood that has not been contaminated infested tainted by paired up with rose.   The soft sweetness of the sandalwood with the dry, woody iris?  A match made in heaven.  This made me almost as happy as … sandalfig.   I think I’m going to dig up some samples of iris and try them out over some sandalwood.  28 La Pausa over Tam Dao?  Sounds plausible to me.

PS.  Crap, I keep forgetting my sources:  decant of this one, private sample.  Yeah, I know — big help!

What’s it like to be a perfume blogger?  Sometimes it’s like this.

Van Cleef & Arpels Cologne Noire.  I wonder sometimes whether a house, having released a line with two or three outstanding scents (Gardenia Petale, Bois d’Iris, and Muguet Blanc, depending) if the rest are guaranteed to be duds, if only by comparison.  Notes of ginger, cardamom, pepper, bergamot, bitter orange, mandarin, woody notes.  I’m having trouble putting my finger on what’s wrong with Noire, but something is.  The whole seems much less than its parts – disjointed and odd, with an aggressive raspiness and a pickled note that reminds me of the difficult Chanel Les Exclusifs – No. 18?  I tried to imagine whether I’d like this any better if it was at Macy’s and the newest offering from Britney.  And the answer, sadly, is no.  Why can’t I find those magnificent Dior colognes anywhere?  Why is life so unfair?  Why, why?

VC&A Orchidee Vanille – notes of mandarin orange, litchi, bitter almond, dark chocolate, Bulgarian rose, violet, vanilla pod, cedar, balsamic tonka bean and white musk.  Luca Turin in The Guide frequently describes scents as having a “candyfloss” note, and he often mentions a particular aromachemical component, which I’m too lazy to look up.  Orchidee Vanille is almost unbearably powdery at the top, after which it smells exactly like those weird, small bags of pre-made cotton candy that my kids buy at the corner market.  Not cotton candy + vanilla –- just cotton candy.  It’s an interesting, sweet chemical smell, but not one I want to wear.  If I want to spray on an interesting, sweet chemical smell, I’ll take Gucci Rush, thanks.

Cartier L’Heure Brilliante – notes of lemon, flaxseed, gin notes and aldehydes.  Musette – I’m trying, I’m trying!!!  Honest to God! It’s very pretty, an herbaceous cologne smell on me.  I have no objections.  I just didn’t fall wildly in love as you did.  Don’t shoot me.

Cartier L’Heure Folle – this one was recommended by Carmencanada when I was doing my berry scent review last week.  Notes: redcurrant, pink peppercorn, grenadine, blueberry, blackcurrant, blackberry, violet, leafy notes, ivy, boxwood, shiso, aldehydes.  This is not berry nice on me.  There is an unfortunate canned-grapefruit note (sour/metallic) on my skin I can’t quite get past.  If you’ve ever eaten tinned citrus you know what I’m talking about.

Cartier L’Heure Promise – notes of petitgrain, fresh herbs, iris, sandalwood and musk.  I … oh.  Oh.  Oh my goodness.  Maybe I’ll talk about this on Wednesday.

Okay, your turn – what have you tried recently, maybe something raved about on the boards/blogs, that’s been a FAIL?  Go ahead, pick a fight with a fellow friend on the Posse!

Sources for all: private samples/decants.

If you are a girl, and you are not on top of your game just now – if you have, in fact, misplaced some of the game pieces, and the rules, and maybe even the damn box everything came in – if your game is off, then maybe what you need are some naughty boots.  (If you are a boy — no offense is intended with this post, please forgive me.  Of course, maybe you need some naughty boots too?)

If your game is off and you need some naughty boots, what you need is a friend – not just any standard-issue friend, but a friend like Louise.  (Perhaps we need a tag on the Posse called It’s Louise’s Fault.)  Your friend will suggest meeting you for coffee at the local mall, and, oh, btw, doll – Nordstrom is having their sale! Let’s go look at shoes and purses just for fun.  And you will see those naughty boots there on the sale rack, you will hear their siren call, you will resist being elbowed aside by these sale-crazed women who come up to your shoulder, even though you are not especially tall yourself – and you will ask the salesperson standing there to fetch you the other boot.

Which you are just doing for fun.  Are you going to buy these boots?  Oh, no!  No, you are not.  These boots, they do not fit into your protective suburban camouflage.  These boots are made for walking, but not walking the dog in the woods, or the kids to soccer.  These boots, which are in black patent leather, are fierce.  They have a round toe and a curved heel and come up above the ankle and they are not conventionally sexy (no point, no stiletto heel) and yet, the hotness, it is totally there.  But no.  They are too much money, even on sale.  They are … impractical.  Also, they will undoubtedly be uncomfortable, that is higher than your usual heel.  Let’s just vamp in front of the mirror.

Oh!  Hey, there!   Hello!  Bonjour, you sexy thing!   Those naughty boots, they are surprisingly comfortable!  This man here, he is explaining that this designer makes a comfortable shoe, and that the reason you are able to stand upright and not hobble is that there is an internal platform.  And it’s true – you are not hobbling.  You are maybe even strutting your stuff a little with your jeans rolled up.  And not only do these naughty boots look fine with the rolled-up jeans, but they are crying out for dark tights and a black pencil skirt and some sort of severe, starched white shirt – a sexy-librarian thing.  Also maybe a riding crop.  You realize that the man over there (whom you assume is with that woman, his wife?) is watching you intently as you work those boots while she tries on those dull tweed mid-heels.  He is not half bad looking; that is a very nice suit.  You wonder how he’d feel about the sexy-librarian look.  And possibly the riding crop.  He’d definitely be into it.  You smile to yourself.  Maybe you need to get out more.

And so you buy those boots.  You plunk down that MasterCard and you buy them.  Those boots are too hot.  You have a party coming up, a staid social affair full of conservative women wearing enough holiday sequin-ry to supply Dancing With The Stars for the next decade.  They all look like oversized Christopher Radko Christmas ornaments.  You are thinking, mmmm, sexy librarian, with the naughty boots and the pencil skirt and your late mother-in-law’s pearls, and (maybe) some red lipstick.  Yes?  You will be there with your own husband, and yet one or two of those other men, older and slightly intoxicated, will follow you like dogs.  Well-dressed, polite alpha dogs.  Your own husband is sensible (or maybe kinky) enough to find this enjoyable.

And what fragrance will you wear to the party, my love, what will you wear?  Perhaps it will be the Thirteenth Hour all night long.

I have tried Cartier’s new scent, XIII – La Treizième Heure, and while words like masterpiece sound stupid coming out of my mouth, because I am an amateur perfume-lovin’ nobody, I am sorely tempted.  La Treizième Heure (notes of leather, maté, birch, narcissus, bergamot, patchouli and vanilla) has given me something I don’t have and always want – a new way to look at leather.  This is not the birch-tar smoky, heavy, dark leather.  This is not the soft, sweet glove-leather either.  This is not the inside of a purse, with a dash of face-powder.  The list of notes doesn’t even seem like it would work for me – too cold, too bitter, too austere.  But there is nothing austere about it.  If it had a color, it would be a dark, caressing brown, not black.  It doesn’t play the Jolie-Madame game of a floral in flagrante delicto with the leather.  The flower here is narcissus, leathery and hay-like green and gold.   I keep reapplying, over and over, trying to decide which part is better – the odd, smoky-lapsang top that is not too smoky or butch or strange, not campfire or church (although I love those as well.)  Or is that drydown the part I love, that oily/buttery narcissus that reminds me a bit of the L’Artisan Fleur d’Narcisse that I was too cheap to buy?  The vanilla is a mere whisper; I couldn’t even have identified it as such without the cheat sheet.  Maybe that barnyard drydown is the part I love most.  Even without the naughty boots it would give me a hell of a lift.

Here’s a link to Grain de Musc’s informative post on this scent, with commentary by Mathilde Laurent.

photo: top and left, my new Chie Mihara boots, although the photo doesn’t do them justice.  Here’s an online photo so you can see the height and the shape of the heel, although mine are all black.

My memory dances and shimmies – I can’t trust its movements. In childhood, winter was a time of snow, outdoor adventures and breathing out ghosts over my face. On the walk to school, we’d shiver and stay warm by pulling lengthy icicles from gates and signposts, playing first Musketeers and then later, when I was all of 8, Kenobi vs. Vader. There’d be sheer pools of black ice on the pavement, and skids would end in success – a monumental speeding up across land that was no such thing, with a stumble back to terra firma – or failure – a bruised posterior whose tenderness would be an echoing reminder of the laughter we’d shared in the days to follow.

But these are highlights, moments that my memory has inked in luminous yellow and pink so brightly that the rest of my childhood text disappears under their dayglo brilliance. They’ve become posed portraits of my experience, rather than representative snapshots, and that’s why trust and memory, for me, are awkward companions.

In adulthood, winter disappeared somehow. No real snow, and a handful of frosts throughout the entire period that would melt before the day was halfway through. Instead, winter became a season of browns, umbers and dull greens, soggy underfoot, smelling of mushrooms and old leaves.

This year however, we’ve had more winter than I thought possible now, given our increasingly temperate conditions. Snow storms that have halted journeys. Last week, I had to turn home after my car decided the route I was taking along the road would be made more interesting by diagonal sliding. This weekend, floods have covered much of the countryside surrounding me, so that back routes are cut off and I’m in a land of lakes. I want log cabins to materialise beofre my eyes. They haven’t yet. Most rivers and streams have burst their banks, and the ditchwater dirge of the water is made glorious in the morning by winter’s etching on its surface. And, on a handful of days, the frosts or snow have lasted for more than a day. It’s actually been cold. Cold for here.

But the variability, the shifting from one unexpected element to another – snow storm, flood, snow storm, sunny ice day, mild dullness with lowering cloud, fog, sudden mists – is too much. It makes me yearn for simplicity: perhaps the endlessly democratic sunshine of southern California, or the true winter of the Sami inside the Arctic circle. And this yearning for simplicity is reflected in my daily habits too – what I am eating, what I am wearing (clothes), what I am wearing (scent).

In perfume, I’m generally a lover of the baroque, the bizarre, the scent that leads to olfactory shock, pleasure brought about by the unexpected. For every modern minimalist number in my collection, I have ten heavy syrups of kohl-lidded decadence.  Though today, I’m tired of those. I want clean. I want pure. I want constancy.

I’ve been wearing the marvellous Eau de Cartier, a summer favourite. Its parma violet hush is surrounded by the glitter of citrus (a glitter I could live without quite frankly, but fortunately it doesn’t last). If it could preserve only the middle notes as an elongated chord, it would perfectly capture my mood – green violet wood that whispers of its tranquility. Unfortunately, the drydown isn’t such perfection – a perfumey melange of musks and woods that nudges into a powdered thickness when what I want is something ‘like gold to aery thinness beat’. Still, it’s as close as I can get right now.

What do you turn to when simplicity calls? And can you recommend anything else? I’m guessing the new Vanille Galante might just fit the bill.

WINNERS! Expect an email from me, if I don’t hear from you first.

Voleur de Roses stolen by Pantera Lily.

Rocabar rocks out with pyramus.

Dzing! sings for hongkongmom.

Vetyver roots out Tommasina.

Bois d’Ombrie gets wood for Christine L.

Lancome Magnifique has notes of saffron essence, cumin, Bulgarian rose, Mai de Grasse rose, jasmine, sandalwood, nagarmota and vetiver.  Hey, this could work.  Eh, maybe… not.  Fruity’ish on the open, it does improve quite a bit in the first 15 minutes.  The sweetness in the open fades nicely, then it smells just a skosh spicy/earthy, and then it pretty much drops off the fragrant earth and there’s nothing, nada, a little bit of a floral something. So I’m either slightly anosmic to this or it truly doesn’t work with my skin.  But have I ever said how much I love their mascaras?

But I had better luck with Cartier Roadster.  Created by Mathilde Laurent with notes of mint, lavander, patchouli, cistus labdanum, vanilla, and Cashmere wood, it goes on slightly mineralic and very, very earthy.  There’s an understated, firm-footed elegance in this that’s really, really great.  It’s fresh in what should be a traditional men’s cologne way, but that earthiness from the vetiver and incense pins it firmly to the ground and makes it completely different from about any other men’s scent I’ve smelled in ages.  I’m smitten with this, and its one of the first men’s scents I’ve loved in a long, long time.

But can we chat about the bottle?  I’ve seen this in person, and it really could sub in for, well… you know.  It takes the top prize for me easily of most sexually suggestive perfume bottle of the year.  If this one isn’t the most erotic for you, which one would you nominate?