Sunday, February 22, 2009

Smell it.

Most of my current perfumes are way floral (Eclat d'Arpège, Hervé Léger, Fleur de Colette). I have a fondness for spicier scents, but I'm still put off of wearing scents that remind me of my mom and her Opium addiction. No, not that opium. Yeah, okay, that opium too, but I'm specifically referring to the Proustian memory of sitting on the floor next to my mom's vanity table, choking on the heady compound fug of hairspray, chain-smoked Winstons, and Opium.

I had a fancy dinner to go to after work the other week, and, true to my, uh, "frugal" nature, I stopped at Nordstrom on my way over to take advantage of the testers in the makeup area. I also swung through the adjacent fragrance department to see if there was anything more suitable for an evening out and decided to try Annick Goutal's Mandragore:

I found myself sniffing my arm surreptitiously throughout the evening, and decided to head over to the Perfume House to check it out. After a brief flirtation with Caron Sacré – um, hello powdery old lady! – and a break to have lunch and do some window shopping, I stuck with the Mandragore. I would have preferred the smaller 1.7 oz size, but they only had the 3.4 oz and, well, I'd rather spend a little more at a local shop to make sure they're still around the next time I'm in the mood for a perfume orgy. Also, I got the more masculine version of the bottle, so maybe I can convince Michael to wear it.

I feel like I smell more, well, adult. Not in a porny way, but more grown up.

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