Disclaimer – I wrote this post first last night at about 11 p.m. because it had been One Of Those Days. I wanted to proofread it, really, but my little eyes were just closing after midnight, and I hit post and came in this morning and did some cleanup on typos, capitalization errors and nonsensical sentence fragments. My apologies to those of you that were in early this morning reading this and still commented on it and refrained from pointing out, um, some writing issues.
It’s funny how you can go for years in your life with very little going on – every day is much the same. Minor drama and changes, but no big upheavals. Then, with no notice, you hit a three-day period where everything about your life that was predictable gets thrown up in the air. That’s my life the last couple of weeks.
Some people hate that, but I love it. I sit on the edge of the cliff that has become my life, waiting to see if the new ground I’m on will hold or if there is a bigger shift to come. I’m not comfortable with it, but living in discomfort is so much more invigorating for me than sliding down the long slow hill into sameness. Angle of Repose. I love that book. We are always climbing up. Some aim higher than others, but with every upward push, you will slide back down to some point on the hill and then start climbing up again. Until inevitably all people come to the Angle of Repose – the place on the downward slide where you stop and are at rest and either do not want to climb up again or find that it is just comfortable, and you aren’t going to slide down further.
I grew up in a large family, and dinnertime, despite living on a farm with an abundance of food, was fraught with peril. Going for the last chicken leg could mean a fork accidentally stabbing your hand. Well, accidental’ish.
Still – I have to continually tell myself that there will always be more, there will always be enough.
That is just prelude to hide the fact that I’m about to trash one of Musette’s favorite perfumes. I think I’m remembering it was her that almost stomped me when I said this before. So,shhhhh, let’s keep this quiet. She’ll think I’m talking about farming or something.
Have you ever felt bad about not liking a perfume? I do. I want to love Frederic Malle’s Parfum de Therese. I do. The story is so great. Edmond Roudnitska created it for his wife, wouldn’t release it to anyone else until after she died, Plus, he’s done a laundry list of some of my favorite perfume influences – Diorella, Miss Dior, Diorissimo.
But I can’t. I don’t just not like it, I really hate it. Really, really hate it. I admire it, I think its construction is interesting. I sprayed it on my arm tonight, and that’s the first time I’ve smelled it close to me or on my person in three years, and I remember clearly why I hate this mess – I’ve not changed, and I swear it’s gotten worse. It’s slightly rotting melons. The ones where you cut up the melon, left the rinds in the sink, fell asleep, forgot about them, got up the next morning in the summer heat and went – ew! Damn, that’s nasty. Other people get overripe fruit and spicy fruity trills. I get sweetly decayed flies-circling fruit that should have been thrown out last night before I invited in that Moroccan dance troupe that cooked spicy food all night and then had an orgy on my living room floor while I was sleeping it off.
Musette can threaten to take a bat to my head, but I won’t change my mind. It’s just horrible and fowl and sickening, except the last hour of a 72-hour unfolding, and that only because you are pretty sure it’s almost over. Talk about a half-life of melon plutonium. And why don’t I get jasmine? I could live with some rotting jasmine! I I loooooooves me some fecal jasmine that’s just the wrong side of dead. I just don’t like my rotting jasmine served up with rotting melon because in a game of “Rotting Jasmine, Melon, Spice”? Melon wins.
But I feel so bad and so guilty because he made it for his wife,and nobody else could wear it until after she died. That’s romantic.
It makes me hate it even more. There, I’ve gone all in, and the entire Perfume World disagrees with me. I know this, I clickety-clicked the reviews, hoping to find just one that even disliked it a teeny bit or didn’t go all swoony over it. I read the praise, sniffed it again and wonder how nutmeg, a smell I love, can be so foul covered in rotting melon. Didn’t March hate it? Did the Internets eat her review because it is just so wrong to not like it? Is there no one out there that agrees with me?
Okay, I’ll take my beating and ask for more. But what I like about it? I sniff it, and it shakes my approach to writing about perfume, my willingness to find something to like in a perfume. And I remember that it’s glorious to really hate something.
I’ve laid my shit bear – when is she going to make another record? – so fess up, what classic, beloved thing do you hate? Not just dislike, not one you won’t wear, but hate down to your core?
Oh! I turned off the mandatory registration to comment. You guys! But, fine, we don’t want you unhappy and commenting it up on some other blog and leaving us here in our commentless House of Dust, so I’ll live with a few permanent spammer correspondents to keep you around. I promise to work on a logo as soon as I get some other things in my life done that are time-critical.
Source of the sample – the far, far back of my closet in a drawer where I won’t accidentally sniff it. But I wonder? Why do I keep it?