Feminine Things.

I Remember When I Wasn't This Big

2014-09-04T19:51:00.001-07:00

On Self-Esteem, Selfies, and the Culture of Thinness

About a year ago, I woke up one day and realized that I had spent the last few years hating myself. Specifically, I hated my body. I dressed poorly, without any care for my appearance. It was a miracle if I put on anything other than poorly fitting yoga pants unless it was for work. If it was for work, I put in as little effort as I could get away with.

This wasn’t a case of me rebelling against a patriarchal society’s expectations of my appearance or a refusal to give in to the incessant demand of the male gaze. I wish I could say that it was. I wish I could say the whole thing had been an intense intentional act of rebellion towards an objectifying world, or a subconscious need to express that I consistently feel like an outsider, like the way I have worn a pair of doc martens for every single one of my graduations without intentionally every remembering I’d done it before or making a proactive choice to do so.

The truth was that I was revolted…by myself. I hated everything about my appearance – including and especially my size. I had done everything to try to get it under control, to get back to the weight of my early 20s. I’d done weird crash diets and gone through periods of extreme disordered eating, trying to keep my caloric intake under 500 calories a day. I’d done gym memberships and paid hundreds a month for a personal trainer, all for not. I’d tried every type of workout under the sun, from trendy things like yoga to Pilates, to retro things like step aerobics and jazzercise, to fad things like hip-hop abs. When I could no longer face the internalized shame of going to a gym because I was too self-conscious about my size, I bought expensive gym equipment for my house, so that I could hide both my shameful body and my attempts to regain some semblance of control over my fitness.

It wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, I was a serious dancer. I danced sometimes four to five hours a day. Despite the ominous warning from my mom and grandmother at the tender age of eleven or twelve that I was fat, and if I wasn’t that I would be soon if I didn’t start watching my weight immediately, I’d never worried too much about it. I was never a petite girl. I was always broadly shouldered and thick-thighed, and I was never very muscular, but I was also limber, with powerful calves and a comfortable kind of grace. Clothes in stores fit me, and I tended toward feminine clothes, veering away from jeans and t-shirts, and toward dresses and skirts.

When I turned twenty-five, everything changed overnight. I started gaining weight at an astonishing rate. I put on fifty, then sixty, then seventy pounds in a year. I had terrible stretch marks, and none of my clothes – which, as a working, full-time student putting myself through school I couldn’t afford to replace – fit me. And the thing was – I hadn’t changed anything. Not the way I ate. Not my level of exercise (which, if anything, increased). In desperation, I went to my doctor and asked her to test my thyroid. Women in my family have struggled with thyroid problems for years, and I strongly suspected I was the latest genetic victim.

My doctor gave me a dim look. “You’re getting older,” she explained with a kind of bored patience, “your body is changing. It happens to women. You have to start watching what you eat and exercising more.”

“Please,” I begged. “Just run the test anyway.”

Turns out, my doctor owed me an apology. My thyroid levels were so low as to be “dangerously low.” The secret to my weight gain, and the decade of self-loathing that followed, was genetic.

Since then, nothing has helped. Through medication I have gotten my weigh to stabilize somewhat, but no amount of effort has helped take it off. Add to that a scary pregnancy-turned-emergency surgery that left me alive but with an ugly scar across the entirety of my abdomen, and I couldn’t stand the way I looked.

I didn’t care if my clothes didn’t fit, as long as they hid my hideous body. I didn’t do much with my hair; I wore no makeup. I didn’t even care all that much if things matched. If I walked past a mirror, I avoided looking at myself, and if someone took a picture, I would go through great pains to avoid being in it.

Me, as an Angel, at the live performance
of Welcome to Nightvale, February 2014

During the time this was going on, which spanned entire years of my life, I genuinely hated myself. I didn’t even want to shower because it meant seeing myself without clothes on. Eventually it affected everything. The insecurity bled into other aspects of my life. I thought I was entirely unattractive. I lost confidence in my marriage. Even my professional confidence suffered. When I didn’t get a job, I was convinced it was, at least in part, because I wasn’t attractive enough.

Then sometime last year, it occurred to me that most of the disgust I felt was entirely in my head. The specific impetus for that revelation isn’t really relevant. What is relevant is the sudden revelation that the biggest problem with my body was how I saw myself.

Right about that time, I saw an essay from a woman about body image and selfie culture. FN1. Amidst a sea of essays about selfies were absolutely the worst thing to ever happen to women and/or culture, here was a woman talking about how selfies were helping her. She talked about how she hid from photos because she was ashamed of her body until she had a life threatening illness. After she recovered, she realized that there were no photos of her for years prior to her illness, and that had she died, her friends and family – who loved her and had come swiftly to her with support when she became ill – would have had nothing to remember her by. So she decided then to stop hating her body – her plus sized but otherwise healthy body – and accept that she was loved for who she was, a fully-abled, capable, beautiful woman. She even went on to see, in the photos she no longer avoided, things she liked about her appearance.

At the beach, Christmas 2013

This was a strange kind of revelation for me. It doesn’t take me than fifteen seconds online to find photos of women who don’t fit the current slim beauty standard being berated for showing their bodies in the public sphere, digital or otherwise. Any woman over a size six who has the audacity to demonstrate any kind of pride in her appearance will be immediately raked over the coals. Youtubers like Cora at VintageorTacky and Loey Lane take unbelievable amounts of criticism over their size positivity pieces. FN2. I actually expect I’m going to get some similar comments just for posting this piece. I occasionally get them now, without writing about body positivity. FN3.

So I started taking photos…of myself. I no longer took empty landscapes. On my frequent solo road trips, I held out the camera and put myself in the photo. When a friend wanted to take a photo of us together, I leaned in, instead of away. And yes, I succumbed to that self-congratulatory trend of the moment – the selfie. I take selfies all the time now, sometimes several times a week. And I don’t just take them – I post them. I put them on my Instagram and my Facebook page. I make David lean in with me at weddings or on vacation; I take them with my cats when I am happy to be home.

And I am here to tell you something, dear reader. Every day that I take a photo of myself and think, “wow, I like this; I am posting it,” I gain back a little bit of love for myself. Because, yes, there is something about selfies that is both self-congratulatory and narcissistic.

But let’s look at the real meaning of those words. As a woman who does not conform to stereotypical beauty standards, it turns out that celebrating myself, congratulating myself on my own inner and outer beauty, establishing my voice and my style and my self-expression as something I feel comfortable putting out into the world because I can find something everyday – even something small – to love and appreciate about myself? That’s a radical act. That’s an act of rebellion. And, perhaps most importantly, that’s an act of love.

I am not going to spend the rest of my life hating myself because I don’t look the way the world tells women we should look. I am going to take better care of myself – of my body, of my appearance, of my being. Because what my disheveled appearance of my past days was reflecting was an inner feeling that I wasn’t even worth my own time, much less anyone else’s. And I refuse to live like that anymore, to be embarrassed or ashamed or afraid. Because that is not who I am when I am being my best self.

As Ani DiFranco once eloquently wrote: “I wanted to take up lots of room. I wanted to loom.” Women who take up space in the world take a lot of flack for it. We’re culturally trained not to be too loud, too assertive, too physically or spiritually large. Where men are culturally trained to assume that any and all available space is absolutely their purview, women get literally and symbolically squeezed out and shunted to the side. But some of us were not meant to make ourselves smaller. Some of us were just made that to take up space; we talk loud, we laugh loud, we speak up, we challenge authority, we make our own way. We even make love loud.

I am one of those women. I am never going to be smaller than my shadow on the wall. And I don’t want to be.

El Hubs and I, getting pretty
for a wedding, August 2013

I’m not one to promote empty vanity, but I’m here to tell you that self-loathing can be equally, if not more, destructive. So my selfie indulgence and my Sephora VIB Rouge status doesn’t mean that the world should revolve around me, that my self-worth is equivalent to the size and cost of my make-up collection, or that I am only as good as that tilted angle selfie I took today. It doesn’t mean that I mistake surface for depth, or that I will trade substance for shallowness. It doesn’t mean that I will determine my own worth by my exterior.

But It does mean that I will no longer let my exterior define my value. I will no longer neglect myself because I think the world doesn’t value my appearance and I have no right to be seen. And I will no longer kill myself to fit into a box that was never big enough for me anyway.

I am a fully-abled, educated, assertive, smart, attractive woman. And it is about time I started acting like it. And one of the things that made me realize all these things about myself was taking self-portraits. Was forcing myself not to look away. Was confronting who I was, and learning to love it, piece by piece, one dreamily filtered digital Polaroid at a time.

When I leave this world, I will leave behind me a stream of bits and bites that show that I was here, and that reflect who I am: someone who lives big and loves big, who likes good food and good friends and a good show on a Friday night. Someone who enjoys music and art and travel. Someone who was generous and kind and had a full life. Someone who was worth seeing, worth knowing about, worth the space I took up.

New Orleans for my
birthday March 2014

And yes, I will also be someone with a massive collection of perfume and make-up, someone who enjoyed the occasional manicure, and someone who learned a little something about skin care. Someone who learned to love and protect and appreciate herself enough to take the time to appreciate the body she was in and the life that came with it.

As a student of history, this is part of my way of telling others, “I was here.” As a feminist, it’s my way of saying, “I am here, and I am proud, and I don’t care if you don’t like it.” And as someone who loves and is loved by others, it is a way of letting the people who can’t be with me every day see a little bit of my life.

And the craziest thing is that –when I began to allow myself to love and appreciate and even celebrate my appearance a little – how happy it made the people who loved me. How celebrated my confidence was by the people who wanted me to be kinder to myself. How glad they all seemed that finally I could see a little of what they see in me all the time.

I’m not saying that this doesn’t make the beauty industry less opportunistic or exploitative. I’m not saying it alleviates the psychological or emotional perils of the problematized self in a digitally curated age. I’m saying that – as with all things – the answer is often in the implementation. For me, loving myself enough to be willing to face myself, and to let others see me? That’s progress. And I appreciate the selfie as a tool in the ceaseless war of self-doubt.

So here’s three cheers for the selfie, and for the small role it can play in the struggle for self-acceptance in an often critical world that can force one to internalize a lot of unrealistic expectations. I appreciate that, in a year of selfies, I can see that most of what I disliked was all in my head, and I can now focus less on unrealistic and, given my medical restraints, impossible goals about my weight and focus instead on having a healthy, active lifestyle in the body I have, no matter what size it is.

“I remember when I wasn't this big,
and now ya'll wanna act like you helped me get here, yeah.
Oh, now everybody wanna love me?
Try to knock me down but I'm strong,
did all this on my own.
Ain't got no time for no new friends,
so for now just leave me alone.
I don't need y'all anyway…

And if you wasn't here when I was down,
then you won't be here when I'm up.
Now the same one you looked over will be the same one that blew up.
Ain't it funny how this life thing works?
Just when you think it's finished is when it all begins.
Go from doubts to having the thought it might work.
It goes up and down and then it starts again…”
~ “Don’t Need Y’all,” Iggy Azalea

__

FN1. I tried very hard to find this essay. If anyone sees it or knows the one I’m talking about, please let me know.

FN2. I think Loey’s piece, “Why Men Hate Fat Women”, is particular poignant.

FN3. Not that you will see them, because I filter like a mo fo, and if you don’t like that, well, I don’t give a flip, because this is my corner of the internet, troll.

And for that one special ex who likes to call me names specifically targeted at my size whenever he gets the opportunity, let me tell you something – I may be large, but you’re cruel, and if I had to choose, I’d rather be me any day of the week. So you? You can suck it.

Top Ten Things I Learned from Freedom Day 2014

2014-07-06T22:36:00.002-07:00

10. The Fourth of July is more fun when you call it Freedom Day.

Being able to yell, “Freedom!” and having people yell, “Freedom!” in return makes for a great party rallying cry. Frankly, it’s just really fun to do any kind of call and answer, holiday or no.

In all seriousness, though, it also makes you think about the difference between patriotism, nationalism, and jingoism, about performative patriotism in all forms, from say joining the armed services to attending protest rallies to wearing items sporting the flag. We’re a very performatively patriotic citizenry here in the U.S., and it’s good to stop and consider what that says and means about us as individuals and as a people, both internally and within the international community.

9. The best kind of birthday cake is one made for America.

I dunno why birthday cake tastes better when you keep shouting, “Happy Birthday America!” but it does. Just trust me.

8. Most of these best films for Fourth of July viewing are missing one of the very best options imaginable…as we discovered yesterday.

I looked at tons of recommended viewing/marathon lists and not one of them had the movie we finally settled on, Varsity Blues. The film actually starts with red white and blue and the first line is literally, “America has a lot of rules.” This film bleeds ‘Merica through and through, and I appreciate that – in the context of the film – this also means a kind of skepticism about following trends or people blindly, an independent spirit, and a willingness to stand up for others and/or what you believe in, even if it means losing something important to you personally. Also, Texas! And football. On the whole, a perfect Freedom Day choice.

7. YouTube has a kind of hilariously good ability to make mix tapes for your Freedom Day partying/aimless driving.

Seriously, you turn on the YouTube and BAM! Here’s a list of weird, strangely patriotic music….kind of? Putting David Byrne’s “America” next to 2LiveCrew “Banned in the U.S.A.,” Lana Del Rey’s “National Anthem,” and Cimorelli’s “Made in America,” you definitely get Americana with an edge. And if your car stereo is swank like mine, you can stream that playlist right through your speakers. Awwww, yeah.

6. There are a lot of Freedom-related smells I enjoy.

I like the smell of gunpowder. I like the smell of bonfires. I like the smell of smoking meat. I like the smell of sweat and salt and sunscreen, the perennial scents of summer. I like the smell of summer fruits – strawberries, watermelons, blackberries. And then there’s the leathers – they smell like new boots and worn saddle – and incenses and desert flowers.

Which is to say that, yes, to me Freedom Day smells a lot like home. I guess you can take the girl of Texas, but you’ll never take the Texas out of the girl. I wish I had Tauer Perfumes Lonestar Memories, but since I didn’t, I opted Tauer Perfumes L'Air du desert marocain, which is meant to capture the experience of “finding peace in a room, lying on the bed, exhausted from the heat of the day, with the window open, letting the cool air in which still is very dry and filled with the scents from the near desert and overlayed with the spicy scents of the streets below.” Portland may not be Houston hot, but hot is hot, and this is what I always think of in the high heat of summer, wherever I am.

5. I have become slightly more baller at fancy eye make-up than I realized.

I saw this awesome #MUA video of a blue gradient eye makeup and decided I really wanted to try it. I think I did a pretty good job (see the photo) annnnnd I got randomly complimented specifically on my eye makeup, so I am calling that a Freedom Day success story.

4. El Hubs has discovered his summer Glühwein beverage creation equivalent – Sangria!

For years now, David has been rocking the glühwein for our winter holiday gatherings. Summers, however, have been less party beverage defined. Thanks to our housemate coming home with five bottles of free white wine and some season fruit inspiration of David’s part, I think we’ve settled on our wine+booze+fruit drink for warmer days. The beverage was delicious, there was plenty of it, and we all enjoyed it, so I think the white wine sangria is definitely a hit!

3. I really like white wine sangria, but like it a lot less when I am wearing it.

I managed to dump a lot of sangria on me during a typical Diana-is-a-klutz disaster, but the nicest thing about a white sangria is that at least it didn’t stain my clothes. Was I sticky? Yes. But that was the extent of my unhappiness, and when it comes to me and my klutziness, that’s a success story. Again, we’re calling that a Freedom Day win.

2. We’ve created a new holiday game!
On Saturday, El Hubs and I created a new 4th of July weekend competition/event/form of entertainment.

You and your friends select the non-alcoholic Americana beverage of your choice (we had unnameable custom-called giant Starbucks beverages, but would also accept things like a giant drink from Sonic, a 72oz Slurpee, etc.). Then you drive around various neighborhoods in your city, comparing their relative 'Freedom' and 'Merica' scores.

For every house/vehicle you pass with tasteful, moderate Independence Day decorations (a tasteful bit of bunting, tiny row of sidewalk flags), said neighborhood gets a 'Freedom' point. For every house/vehicle you pass that either looks like it had been hosed down in American regalia OR has some sort of obvious over the top spirit going on (I'm looking at you, guy with a giant American flag attached hastily to a 2x4 that is tied to the gate of your truck), said neighborhood earns one 'Merica' point. Bonus points are awarded for 'Permanent' installations in either category (e.g. someone with an obviously permanent flag pole and flag set up in their yard; something with a patriotic paint job on their vehicle).

This leads to both amazing conversations and photos. Why is wealthy neighborhood A so much freer than wealthy neighborhood B? Why did small municipality X feel so 'Merica-inspired they covered their street construction in flags? What demographics lead to overt expressions of various forms of patriotism? What do these expressions represent and how they differ? Why do some people with lots of money still have such terrible taste?

So many questions! Plus you get to drive around listening to patriotic music (Springsteen, Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, Sr., etc.) while yelling "Freedom!" or "'Merica!" and pointing or taking the occasional photo.

1. I sort of love all this patrio-nationalistic nonsense all the same.

The thing is, I genuinely enjoyed the decorations. Like I was kind of sad I hadn't decorated our house by the time I got home. Hell, I even tear up whenever I hear "Proud to be an American," and I'm fine with that. So I think the key is to recognize there's a little ingrained overt patrio-nationalistic in all of us and to smile and wish people a happy fourth if they look at you funny if you're playing our little as-yet-unnamed-game.

And with that – I’ll take my leave. I hope you all had a great weekend, and I wish my American readers a happy Freedom Day to all.

"He says to 'be cool' but I don't know how yet.
Wind in my hair, hand on the back of my neck.
I said, "Can we party later on?"
He said, 'Yes, yes.' (Yes.)

Tell me I'm your National Anthem.
(Ooh, yeah, baby, bow down, making me so wow, wow.)
Tell me I'm your National Anthem.
(Sugar, sugar, how now, take your body down town.)
Red, white, blue is in the skies.
Summer's in the air and baby, heaven's in your eyes.
I'm your National Anthem."
~ "National Anthem," Lana Del Rey

Being John Wesley: A Few Words On Art, Life, and the Unknown Impact of Others

2014-06-22T22:18:00.000-07:00

This weekend marked the anniversary of my ten-year college reunion. I was on my class committee, but unfortunately ended up extremely sick on Friday. Consequently, I was stuck in bed most of the weekend and only rallied to make it to the retirement party of a beloved campus icon and staff member today because there was no way I was going to miss the opportunity to celebrate a staff member who meant so much to me.

Unfortunately, being sick meant missing the opportunity to spend time with the one person I really wanted to see at reunion: my sweet friend Bonnie. Bonnie was a tremendously talented woman I had the good fortune, not only to meet in college, but to work closely with during our individual and joint quests to top each other as the bigger overachiever in the Lewis & Clark College History Department. Bonnie was every bit as passionate as I was about studying history, learning the research and analytical skills to be a good historian in her own right, and ensuring the stories of those who were likely to be overlooked or lost to the sands of time be captured and retold, so that we might learn from all those who went before, not only those who were privileged in moment of their lives.

Bonnie made me a better student. She was my partner when I faced the rare and dreaded group project (something I have never been a fan of); she was my reciprocal support system and study buddy when the nights of research went long; and she was someone I respected enough to want to compete with, to want to earn the respect of, and whom I desired to share my work with, so that it might be improved in the sharing. When it came to history, Bonnie was my cheerleader, champion, critique partner, and friend.

But Bonnie helped me grow in a different and arguably more important way. When I met Bonnie, she was far further along in her feminism than I was. While I was trying to figure out what feminism meant to me and the kind of feminist I wanted to be, Bonnie was helping found the Womyn’s Center, organizing The Vagina Monologues, and single-handedly putting together a week of Take Back the Night events. Most of the truly feminist programming that happened while I was a student at Lewis & Clark was run, in large part, by Bonnie. I spent most of my time in college being a feminist academic, learning to parse thick texts and integrate my radical feminism into my already established philosophical framework and life experiences; meanwhile, Bonnie was busy being the hands-on activist and advocate it would take me years to become.

When I met Bonnie, we both had the same dream: to become American historians and professors of history like our shared academic mentors. However, as way led to way, Bonnie stayed on the path to academia, while I stumbled into other interests and opportunities. I don’t regret my choices, but I will say that my own inability to maintain the kind of passion and dedication we once shared deepened my respect and admiration for Bonnie as I watched her press on in the face of adversity where I would have turned back.

I discovered today, upon receiving a copy of Bonnie’s now completed doctoral dissertation, that my name appears in the acknowledgements. Bonnie calls me her “first friend to love history.” But if I am her first friend to love history, then Bonnie was my first true feminist friend. Without her, I wouldn’t be half the person I am today; I am also fairly certain this blog would not exist.

What stunned me about finding my name in Bonnie’s dissertation acknowledgements most was that I had no idea I’d made such an impact on her life. Similarly, I suspect she has no idea she had such a significant impact on mine. At the time, we were just two young women who shared a passion for history, story-telling, and the secret untold stories of women and children. We ate together, studied together, grew together, and never once did it occur to us at the time that we were shaping each other into the adults we’d later become.

The last thing shared by our outgoing Vice President of Campus Living at his retirement party today was this charge to all in attendance, borrowed from John Wesley: “Do all the good you can. By all the means you can. In all the ways you can. In all the places you can. At all the times you can. To all the people you can. As long as ever you can.” I’ve been thinking about those words a lot, and about Bonnie’s dissertation note, and about those two girls pouring through the books in the reference section of the library over a decade ago.

You never know who is going to happen into your life and, though you don’t know it in the moment, change you in a subtle but fundamental way, like a rock thrown into the pond of your being, rippling out and out forever. It may be the girl with the stripped stockings and spiky blonde hair with pink bangs who is willing to match you late night minute-for-sleep-deprived-minute on a research project, and in turn teaches you not just about history or feminism, but also of how much you are actually capable of when you are pushed to do your best. It may be the lovely woman with the vintage dresses and classic sense of style who introduces you to your first beautiful perfumes, sparking a passion for olfactory art that changes forever the way you interact with the world. It may be the kindly old vice president who encourages you to stand up for yourself when you’re fighting with the entire theatre department to bring new works of art and new collaboration to a college; it may by the young, passionate sound designing roommate whose work on a beautiful play inspires you to think about what art is and what it means to create something, then to pick up a pen and start writing again for the first time in weeks.

You never know who will change your life; you never know when you might change someone else’s. And since you don’t know, since you may never know, whose life you are changing in the moment, then perhaps that makes Wesley’s charge even more timely, and therefore appropriate:

Do all the good you can.
By all the means you can.
In all the ways you can.
In all the places you can.
At all the times you can.
To all the people you can.
As long as ever you can.

You just never know when you might be the person who makes all the difference. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a copy of The Student Body: A History of the Stewart Indian School, 1890-1940 to read.

There is no home like the one you've got...

2014-04-30T09:01:00.001-07:00

Updates from Rwanda, Part 3

You know that scene in Almost Famous, where William Miller is getting further and further into life with the band and farther away from his home and life before he got the gig with Rolling Stone Magazine?

He's on the bus, and he's freaking out because he is sort of feeling the last of his normalcy slipping away, and he turns to Penny Lane and says, “I need to go home!”

And then Penny smiles, slow and wide, holds up her empty palm and pretends to blow something out of it into his face, waggles her fingers, and says, “You are home!”

That is what the last few days have felt like.

The ex-pats here keep trying to get me to stay longer...or permanently. They keep proposing options, both ridiculous and realistic. They have offered to pass me around as a live-in counselor and cook. They have suggested I teach at one of the local tech schools, and even offered to get me a tour. One particularly alcohol-soaked night, it was suggested I learn to distill vodka from potatoes on the internet, and then start Kigali's first distillery. I even have a backing offer.

I've only been here about twelve days, but strangely, I could see it. Of all the things I thought I could imagine when I not only left home for the first time, but of all places, went to Africa, I did not imagine liking it enough to be able to imagine myself living here.

And yet...I could see it. I could imagine taking in generation after generation of Peace Corps. volunteers who wanted a safe place to live with hot running water. I could imagine working here, living here, even driving here, which has to be one of the scariest endeavors available. Kigali, for all its problems, is beautiful. It's decently well-organized. It's relatively safe.

There are things I would miss: easily accessible and wide varieties of cheese, for one. Any hope of decent internet. Western healthcare. American television. Obviously I would need to find a way to get my perfume collection here in one piece.

But there are so many things here I can already see myself missing when I go back: fresh and plentiful fruit juices, glass after glass. The beautiful countryside with its lakes and mountains, which I am only just starting to explore. The art, the music, the dancing, the textiles. The flowers that grow everywhere, in more kinds than I have seen outside botanical gardens, all fragrant and bright. And I'll tell you this: I eat a helluva lot better in Africa than I ever do in the U.S.

I knew that coming here was going to be an adventure. And that was good. I needed a little adventure in my life. A smidgen of upheaval. Some mild shakubuku. 2014, the year of doing things I never imagined I'd do. It seemed like a theme worth embracing.

I did not expect to come here, look around, and think, “Yes, I could live here. I could be okay with getting my own electricity and water. I could adjust to the less than reliable internet. I could be happy here. I could learn French, and even a some Ikinyarwanda. I could live this life.”

I realize a huge part of my feelings about this have to do with the relative safety of Kigali, my high amounts of contact with other Americans, and the general high quality of life I'm experiencing here. Nonetheless, I did not expect to find myself thinking, “Yes, I could like and even love living in Africa.”

I miss my friends back home, but I don't miss home itself in the way I expected. It's an interesting, discovering new things about myself. It's nice to know that even well into my thirties, I am not done growing, changing, becoming who I am supposed to be. Any reports of my death have been exaggerated, even in my own mind; I am still, very much, alive.

And this feeling of fitting, of being bigger than I thought I was, more capable of embracing newness, chaos, change -- it's wonderful. It reminds me again how often we live our lives small, thinking we are only capable of navigating a thimble worth of experience, when inside we are vast oceans of being. At the end of the day, our boundaries are defined more often by our fear than by our own capacity.

I would like, very much, to be less afraid.

Today I am wearing Lavanila Laboratories Vanilla Grapefruit. Available at Sephora, Vanilla Grapefruit is described as follows:

An uplifting citrus, this addictive blend of juicy pink grapefruit, fresh lime, crisp cedarwood, and warm Madagascar vanilla is fresh and inviting. Kissed by sunshine, this unique scent lifts the spirits.

Each fragrance starts with a warm base of Madagascar vanilla and layers on a unique blend of pure essential oils for an exquisite expression of nature that captures a mood, a memory, or a moment in time. Hailed as the world’s first healthy fragrance, natural technology infuses organic sugar cane alcohol with skin-saving botanicals and antioxidants for a modern twist on the classic art of perfumery.

Notes: Pink Grapefruit, Lime, Bergamot, Orange, Cedarwood, Madagascar Vanilla.

Sephora describes Vanilla Grapefruit's style as “Exotic. Sensual. Addictive.” Maybe that's why I keep respraying it. On application, the grapefruit note is strong, but fades quickly into a mixture of grapefruit, vanilla, and lime that smells more like those chewable fruit candies than actual fruit to me. That isn't a knock, by the way. I love those things. I just wouldn't reach for this one looking for a realistic fruit scent.

After about an hour, a lot of that candied smell burns off and Vanilla Grapefruit settles into a scent that is more woody and powdery than foodie or floral. The bergamot is very faint on me, but I get a nice balance of cedar and a vanilla that reminds me of the big tins of puff powder with giant pink powder puffs I used to get as holiday gifts when I was a little girl. Those things only ever smelled like one of two things: roses or vanilla. (Honestly, it's a wonder I love both notes so much. I guess I figure I'm spicy enough on my own that adding a little sweet certainly can't hurt.)

Vanilla Grapefruit is decently long lasting. I can still smell it faintly over six hours along. In terms of sillage? Moderate. I wouldn't take a bath in it, but if you're a careful sprayer, you can wear it without giving anyone around you a toothache.

I'm sure all this sugar is going to make everyone who sniff this feel like Vanilla Grapefruit is the province of fifteen year old girls. Well let me tell you, I am no teenager, and I get a lot of compliments on it, so don't right off it's light, fizzy fun as too youthful for you without trying it out first.

Vanilla Grapefruit is available from Sephora in a 75ml spray for $58. I feel like this is a pretty good price for what you're getting. As always, I recommend trying before you buy.

I could only find one other review from Musing of a Muse. Too bad for you fumies out there. Vanilla Grapefruit is a nice little scent and I will always remember it as part of my trip to Rwanda.

I have got so much to give.
I swear, I do.
I may not have nine lives,
but this one feels brand new.
Yes I've lived a good one.
I have tried to be true.
There are some things I never realized
'til I met you.
How the wind feels on my cheeks
When I'm barkin' at the moon!
There is no home like the one you've got
'cause that home belongs to you!
~ “Barking at the Moon,” Jenny Lewis

Fools Like Me.

2014-04-23T01:24:00.000-07:00

Dear reader:

I've been working on a new book lately, and it's been interesting to think about what it means to have the power to destroy someone else's life. In my current work-in-progress, one of my characters has a significant advantage over the other, and has all the necessary information and evidence to put an end to the other, rather permanently. Some would even argue, in the context of the situation, that she should.

So I've been thinking a lot about love, and about trust, and about vulnerability. Because I feel like it must take either great trust or great stupidity to put yourself in that position. Some people would probably call it idiocy or naivety, but to me, it seems like something else.

Are you sure you've got the right number?
Is it me you wanna talk to tonight?
Everyone in town's got your number.
Everbody's got you pegged right.
Is that why you got in touch with me?
Oh I guess you must be, running out of fools.

It's a vulnerability and that, in itself, when the person is completely aware of what they're doing, of the kind of power they're handing the other person, requires a kind of faith. It's a form of trust. And to give someone everything they would ever need to turn your world upside and leave you with nothing more than the wasted, smoking ashy ruins of what you had before has to require a special kind of belief in that other person, a willingness to believe they won't simply nuke you from orbit just because they can.

Marni and I talk about this a lot, both in terms of our work and in terms of our lives. We debate whether it is worth it to take that chance. We both tend to be big-hearted people who are quick to embrace newcomers and make a home for them in our lives, in our hearts. We've both been pretty deeply screwed over in the past as a consequence.

One could presume that, as writers and therefore necessarily also students of human nature, we'd both be a little more cynical. Both personal experience and media would tend to teach us that this is, frankly, a stupid way to live a life. That we could be the kind of cool, level-headed, disaffected heroines we tend to like if we could just take a step back and see people for who they are, not for whom we hope they will be.

You left me there without a warning.
Your goodbye was even colder than ice.
Didn't bother you I was crying.
Now you wanna break my heart twice?
Is that why you got in touch with me?
Oh I guess you must be, running out of fools.

Instead, I think we are true romantics. We both, regardless of previous pain, are willing to remain open to the possibility of love, friendship, kinship, and closeness with new people as they come along. We both believe that it is simply better to take that risk than be closed off to any possibility whatsoever.

Sure, we can mentally play just about storyline all the way through to the end, arranging and rearranging the pieces of a person's life and their relationships like so many chess pieces on board. You put enough pieces in play, and you can see what the ending will look like -- take you opponent's queen off the board and they're vulnerable, move a knight to intercept an unwanted encounter and shore up your player's current position, leaving them better off than before.

But just because you can see a potential ending coming doesn't mean you can avoid it. It doesn't even mean you shouldn't try playing out the line just to see, even if it reads very clearly, right there in your crisp new edition of Modern Relationship Opens, "slight advantage to opponent." Sometimes the point of playing is the pain; sometimes that is how a person has to learn and grow.

You got back to my name in your little black book.
Tell you what – I bet you forgot how I even look.
Yes you did.

People are not like a national park. You can't pack in and pack out of someone's life, changing little, doing no harm on your way. Your life ends up scattered with the debris of someone else's passing regardless of their intent. Nobody comes into your life and manages to avoid stepping on the moth; time is linear, and when they step on those details in your lives, it's like stepping on the butterfly -- it changes your future inexorable, permanently, and forever.

To quote the ever popular John Green, "You don't get to decide whether or not you get hurt in this life. But you do get to decide who hurts you."

If I have to choose between being trusting and taking a little pain in exchange, I'll do it. I'd rather have the good things you get in exchange than nothing at all.

So go ahead with all your sweet talking,
go ahead for all the good it can do.
Have yourself a dime for the talking,
then I'm gonna hang right up on you,
'cause this time, you're not getting through to me.
Oh I guess you must be, running out of fools,
even fools like me.
~ “Fools Like Me,” Neko Case

You better listen to the radio…

2014-04-21T23:58:00.000-07:00

A Review of Viktoria Minya Hedonist

Dear Reader:

While I am here in Africa, I have a surprising amount of time on my hands. First, this is the longest vacation (roughly two weeks) I think I've taken since at least 2009. Second, my lovely host Ashley has to work some of the time I am here. While eventually I will figure out my way around enough to go out on my own a little, today was only day three of my adventures, so I stuck close to home.

One of the things I brought with me was a hard drive full of music for Ashley to keep. In point of fact, I brought what probably represents about eighty-five percent of my entire music collection. If you know me, you already realize this is a lot of music (close to 70,000 songs). I brought a second drive in my bag, copied the files, and the former is staying with Ashley, leaving her comfortably soundtracked for the next few years while she is in Kigali on her fellowship. Given that the only radio we can really get is the Armed Forces Network, Ashley was desperately in need of this particular gift. Now my job is to meet her demands to set up playlists for her before I go. Such is the life of the traveling mixed cd specialist. FN1.

Right now, I am playing one of my personal Top Five, All-time, Desert Island albums, The Very Best of Elvis Costello and the Attractions. This album has remained on my top five list since I was nineteen, so I think it's safe to say it is never going away. FN2. If I were pressed to name the rest of the top five at this very moment, it would include: The Mountain Goats All Hail West Texas (though tomorrow I might say Tallahassee or The Sunset Tree); The Magnetic Fields 69 Love Songs; Lana Del Rey's Born to Die; and Neko Case Middle Cyclone. FN3.

Other things I overpacked: I think I have twelve different lipsticks, which was probably two more than needed; six pairs of shoes, which I think was acceptable but others might not (honestly, I wish I'd brought a few more); and of course, perfume.

I brought mostly samples with me, reasoning that now was a perfect time to work through some of my overwhelming backlog and get to some reviews. I know, I know. Even when we are far apart, dear reader, I am always thinking of you.

Aren't you lucky?

Today, I am wearing Viktoria Minya Hedonist because it seemed strangely in keeping with my blog themes of late. Luckyscent describes Hedonist as follows:

Remember when Rossano Brazzi sang “Some Enchanted Evening,” how he fell in love across a crowded room on a tropical Island? If you’ve ever want to be that girl that stops the party, this bold debut from Victoria Minya is your next must-have. The hedonist who wears this intoxicatingly sweet floral, loaded with ripe peaches and rum extract, is unquestionable a pleasure-seeker, but she also a lady. She’s the center of attention without raising her voice. She enters and heads turn.

In this perfect orchestration, peach melds with vanilla, osmanthus, jasmine and soft tobacco in a classic example of feminine flirtation, a beguiling expression of skin that wants to be touched. In presentation as well, the fragrance captivates. The handmade wooden box opens to reveal a beautifully crafted bottle filled with hundreds of Bohemian crystals that sparkle in the champagne colored liquid. Strikingly sensuous, wearing this will make you feel gorgeous, confident, and undeniably enchanting.

Notes: Rum, bergamot, peach, osmanthus absolute, jasmine absolute, orange flower absolute, tobacco, vanilla, cedarwood, vetiver

Tobacco, rum, vanilla, and osmanthus all run high in the opening. I get no bergamot, which I would definitely notice because it's one of those notes that rarely works for me. The peach is there, but not in a ripe fruit way. On me it's more like a flowering peach tree before the fruit begins to form.

In the dry down, I start to get more of a fruity peach element. I also get plenty of vetiver and some cedarwood, giving Hedonist a dry clean base that reminds me of the smell of a new suede jacket. It has that sort of texture to it, soft and smooth under your skin. This base still resides under the sweet top, though, which is neither entirely foodie or floral on me, but a sort of melded sugary scent. Later I get a tobacco that is more like raw news leaves than aged sweet ones, which adds an interesting dynamic to the middle. The end becomes gently sweet on me, more floral than food now, and resides close enough that I can only smell it when I press my nose to my skin, but that's after a full day's wear.

A lot of reviews of Hedonist commented on the complexity of this fragrance and I have to agree. There's a lot to be had in Hedonist, and it changes again and again as it wears. It's pretty, it's interesting, and it's a challenging scent. You have to be willing to engage and reengage to truly experience it. It's one of those I'd recommend a newer nose get a sample of, try, and then set aside for six months or a year to try again.

As purple as the prose of the scent description is, I will agree with Luckyscent on at least one point – it is definitely a presentation of skin that wants to be touched. This is a pretty sexy perfume. Hedonist, as presented, is decidedly feminine. I doubt there are a lot of men who want to smell this starkly sweet because Americans just don't think of sugary as being particularly male. That said, on the right man, it might be completely beautiful. This is, once again, one of those times when I want to wait until David falls asleep and test things on him unawares. FN4.

Since I'm using a wand sample I can't give you a good sense of sillage, but I'd bet it would be on the higher side. In terms of longevity, it was still hanging around close to the skin almost twelve hours in, so that's a big plus if you want to wear something for the whole day. When I woke up, a good eighteen hours after application, there was still a tiny hint of it on my skin. That's some seriously high quality perfume.

Hedonist is available in a 45ml for a whooping $210. Now let's be frank: that is steep. That is By Kilian levels of steep. There is very little I am going to pony up for at that price point, and this would not be at the top of my list (again, see By Kilian or some of Ayala Moriel's more expensive parfum). That said, it's a complicated lovely scent and if you find it to be your Holy Grail of some category or another, it might be worth shelling out the big bucks for this one. My recommendation is to try a sample to make sure you love it before you buy.

Want more? Try:
~ a review from The Non-Blonde
~ a review from Kafkaesque
~ a review from The Candy Perfume Boy
~ a review from Perfume Shrine
~ a review from Epiphany
~ a review from Ca Fleure Bon

Some of my friends sit around every evening
and they worry about the times ahead,
while everybody else is overwhelmed by indifference
and the promise of an early bed.
You either shut up or get cut out
they don't wanna hear about it –
so many inches on the reel to reel.
And the radio is in the hands of such a lot of fools
trying to anesthetize the way that you feel.
~ “Radio,” Elvis Costello and the Attractions
___________
FN1. I would like to also note, as a tiny ego stroke to myself, that Ashley carted the mixed CDs I have made her over the years all the way to Africa! Yep. That's right. My mix cds are not to be trifled with. FN2. Breese, if you're reading this, I will thank you again for your excellent taste in music. I doubt any other single person has added as substantively to my musical preferences as you have. And yes, Talking Heads' Sand in the Vaseline would have been my sixth choice, and often makes the top five even to this day. <grin>
FN3. For those of you long time readers who cannot believe that Tori Amos, Aimee Mann, Ani DiFranco, or any other number of women (Lucinda Williams, Brandi Carlile, Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris, The Pretenders, Joan Jett, Billie Holiday, Nina Simone, I really could go on and on) have all been bumped from this list – sorry. These are the albums that I can't imagine living without right now. It is entirely like I will wake up feeling differently tomorrow. The truth is, Elvis Costello is probably the artist I have been most loyal to over the years. It's just a fact. That Very Best Of album never fails to make the list.
FN4. For the record, I have never done this, but I always want to. The fact that he wears a lot of sandalwood makes me always want to try super sweet scents like this on him when he's not looking.

As Is.

2014-04-21T10:01:00.001-07:00

You can't hide behind social graces,
so don't try to be all touchy-feely.
'Cause you lied to my face of all places,
but I got no problem with that really.

There is something profoundly heartbreaking about people who don't know what they want. I remember being like that in my youth when I was lost and scared and desperate to be loved, but sometimes I think that's just part of growing up. We're all scared and weak and vulnerable and afraid as kids.

Then we grow up and get to know ourselves and our own minds, and we break our bodies and our things and one another and we learn from all that. We learn to know when we really want something and when we're just being selfish. We learn, in other words, how to be build the life we want through our own choices, with all their attendant consequences.

What bugs me, is you believe what you're saying,
and what bothers me is you don't know how you feel.
And what scares me is while you're telling me stories,
you actually believe that they are real.

As an adult, I usually know what I want. I may not always be right that I'll like it when I get it, but there's no part of me that doesn't just fundamentally recognize when I am intent on getting my way or accomplishing something.

There's very little I have tried to do in my life that I haven't been able to accomplish despite significant, multi-layered, ongoing obstacles. Maybe that's why I've never had much of a problem with all this. When I decided to to college, I wasn't willing to settle for the Big U down the street, and a lot of people told me that going far away from home to a small, expensive liberal arts school was beyond my reach. It took two years of research and applications, two schools and five years with time of during my second year because I ran out of money, but I did it. The same was true for law school, particularly the school I wanted. Jobs, relationships, personal goals like the year I decided to watch all of the AFI top 100 films of the twentieth century – I always just sort of push through whatever is in my way – lack of time, lack of money, personal fears.

On those occasions when I start things and don't end up finishing them, I usually find that if I go back and really examine my choices and decisions, I see that I simply didn't want the thing enough to dedicate myself to having it. I wasn't willing to put in the time or money or energy, wasn't willing to prioritize whatever I had to in order to get what I wanted. Whether I know it at the time, that's a choice. As I've gotten older, I've gotten better at calculating whether or not I really want something enough to pursue it. If not, I just don't bother.

Just give up, and admit that you're an asshole.
You would be in some good company.
And I think you'll find that your friends would forgive you,
but maybe I'm just speaking for me.

So I'm always confused by people who don't know their own minds, people who are self-deluding, people who can't look at their own choices and see the potential outcomes and then factor that into the choices they're making. How does a person do that? How do they not calculate the loss into their gain: opportunity costs, potential pain for them or someone else, economic hardship, loss of relationships? How do they wake up and lie to themselves and the people around them about what they want, about why they're unhappy, about what its going to cost them to do what they need to do to have the life they want?

I always know what I want, even when I determine the costs are too high to make pursuing them worthwhile. If I can't be honest with myself, I'll never be capable of being honest with anyone else. If you can't have what you want, you should at least be willing to admit to yourself why you can't have it, what it is that is stopping you, what you're unwilling to sacrifice to have it. And if you're not going to try, really try, then I often think it's better to accept that than engage in a lackluster, half-assed pursuit. You waste your own time, energy, and money as well as that of everyone else involved.

'Cause when I look around
I think, “This? This is good enough.”
And I try to love whatever life brings.
'Cause when I look up, I just miss all the good stuff.
And when I look down, I just trip over things.

I'm not saying you should be afraid to challenge yourself or try new things, things that scare you. But I think if you're going to, then you have to really make a go of it. You can't decide you're going to give it your thirty-seven percent. No one ever accomplished anything that way. Even if you have to limit the amount of time you put into something, at least be committed to it when you're doing it.

Once you know you want something, and you've determined it's worth the other risks or costs involved, don't be afraid to give anything your all: all your time, your energy, your heart, your love. Even if you can only give it that one hundred percent commitment for an hour a day, that one full hour of effort will get you further than ten times as much time spent only being partially committed.

I'm writing about this, about this kind of committing to getting what you want for a couple of reasons. One is that I'm working on pitching while I'm here on vacation, and also trying to finish but a couple of projects that have been sitting around, wanting attention. Pitching is terrifying, but basically a necessity to the next step in my writing career, and something I have been avoiding because no one loves rejection. But you know what? As you've probably picked up from my latest updates, I am determined to stop being afraid of my own life. Instead, I am embracing the motto of the British Special Air Force: "Those who risk, win."

It is hard, being in a country where information is controlled and we're mourning a genocide while everything is bursting with life simultaneously, not to think a lot about honesty and living life to the fullest, about what it means to see the real beyond the fake veneer, about the ways we all have to recognize that what people say is not the whole story, and how important it is to be honest with ourselves. I also keep being reminded that sometimes life just goes on in spite of everything, that sometimes there's just too much pregnant possibility in the world for anything to stop it -- not fear, not oppression, not death.

I will be like this flower, braving
the razor wire in pursuit of life.

Everyone needs to be more honest with themselves, me included - about what they want, about what's stopping them from being happy or what they want to achieve. Then they have to be willing to fix, and really commit to fixing it, to trying to change, to making things happen. Change may be scary, but it's better than the north death of a thousand paper cuts.

Embrace the Aido Annie of it all: “With you, it's all or nothing.” FN1. I say, why not all or nothing? If it isn't worth all of you, it probably wasn't worth it in the first place. And if you're not trying because you're afraid? Well, to quote Mrs. Landingham from The West Wing, “God, Jeb. Then I don't even wanna know you.”

And I've got no illusions about you.
Guess what? I never did.
When I said, “I'll take it,”
I meant as is.
~ “As Is,” Ani DiFranco

______
FN1. Though, hilariously, "I'm Just a Girl Who Can't Say No," is strangely more appropriate for me.

Big Time Sensuality.

2014-04-19T02:17:00.002-07:00

Updates from Rwanda, Part 2

Dear reader:

Maramutse! Good morning!

Kigali smells amazing.

It was actually the first thing I noticed when I hit tarmac. I stepped off the plane, took a breath, and thought, "Wow. This is new and lovely." I noticed it even before the stars.

It rained all day the day I flew in, so the entire city has that wet world smell. Since I live in the Pacific Northwest, it's a smell I love. There's something about that way rain changed the world that I will never stop loving. To the eye, it washes things clean of dirt and grit so everything sparkles and seems new. But for those of us who tend to encounter the world nose first, it does something even more magical. When the rain falls, it mixes with oils on leaves, resin on bark, dried juices on fruit flesh, pollen in flowers, and it brings them to life. Like turning a television, the world goes, not from black and white exactly, but maybe a washed out pastel, to vibrant technicolor, it turns the olfactory sound of the would up to eleven.

Rain-kissed Kigali, on first blush, smells…in a word? Tropical. It is fruity and floral. Bananas and guava and passionfruit and avocado trees grow everywhere, and the scent and taste of fruit flesh straight from the yard makes for one delicious early morning snack. I haven't figured out what the floral notes are yet, but its not one of your big traditionals -- not roses, lilies, or irises, or even the magnolias and gardenias which is what I associate with the tropical wetlands of the American South. Underneath there are ripe green notes that give the air a feeling of rich, pungent….life. Full, rich possibility just seems to drip from every leaf and stem. Being here, I can see where some of the notes for Hermes Un Jardin Sur Le Nil came from. It has a sensuality to it that is hard to ignore.

Everything seems so alive. For a country currently in mourning for the mass genocide that occurred here twenty years ago this year, a country where they are still finding the bodies of those who were massacred, it must seem cruel, sometimes, to live in a place that is teeming with life and overshadowed, at times, by death and ruin.

Ashley, the lovely woman who brought me here, and her friend Bree were surprised and amused by my love for the smell of the air. They seem to be used to it. Perhaps after a few days here, I'll stop noticing, too. I hope not. There's something about the smell of the world newly encountered that I would like to hang onto for a little while.

Now I'm off to an ex-Pat Easter Saturday brunch. For those of you wondering, I'm wearing Le Labo Iris 39.

More soon!

I can sense it:
something important
is about to happen.
It's coming up.

It takes courage to enjoy it,
the hardcore and the gentle.
Big time sensuality.

We just met
and I know I'm a bit too intimate,
but something huge is coming up
and we're both included.

It takes courage to enjoy it,
the hardcore and the gentle.
Big time sensuality.

I don't know my future after this weekend --
and I don't want to.

It takes courage to enjoy it,
the hardcore and the gentle.
Big time sensuality.

~ "Big Time Sensuality," Bjork

These Fictional People I Have Known

2014-04-18T12:06:00.001-07:00

Updates from Rwanda, Part 1

So…

I'm on the plane.

The plane.

To Africa.

Okay, technically, I'm on the plane to Amsterdam, which will land and I will walk over to another gate and a few hours later get on another plane, and then I'll be on the plane to Africa. We've already passed Spokane, and they just announced: nine hours and fifteen minutes to Amsterdam.

I'm watching August: Osage County on the plane, which is about the least Africa appropriate choice on the available list of options. FN1. It is, however, perfectly Diana appropriate. Not only is it a southern-tinged interpersonal drama, which is always up my alley, on top of that, the film opened with a quote from T.S. Eliot, who may be my favorite poet. If that doesn't scream Diana, I don't know what does. Already I have laughed with the gallows affection and pain of familiarity four or five times and I'm only fifteen minutes in. Every single line is something someone in my family or our neighbors growing up could have said, and might still say, if any of them were still alive.

"At least one of my girls stayed close to home. In my day, families stayed together."

It's funny how much more real that thought becomes as you get older. None of us get another chance at any of this: to be happy, to have adventure, to love and be loved. As risk averse as I am, it's that thought driving me forward: toward change, toward danger, toward life. I don't want to look back and wonder why I waited, why I wanted, why I was afraid.

And that, dear reader, is why I am going to Africa. Because I can sit on this plane and watch this movie about these fictional people I have known all my life and see them living their pain, pain that is all too familiar, right here on this tiny screen. Or I can stay home, stay safe, and be one of them. I can live a quiet life. A well-kept, well-ordered, predictable life. A life that makes everybody happy and comfortable...but me.

Or I can do something different.

"This madhouse is my home."
"Think about that statement for a second."

About a month ago, I went to New Orleans with one of my best friends, frequent Feminine Things. featured player, the Kate. And something happened to me over that weekend.

Maybe it was because I am thirty-six now, and I remember my own momma when she was even younger than me, being one of the most miserable people I have ever known. FN2. Maybe it's because I know my daddy died at fifty-two, and that feels scarily closer to me now than the misty and watercolored days of youth do these days. Maybe it's because my grandmother beat it into me that she wanted me to live a life she wanted and set me on this path before she died, also far too young...

...but when you really think about it, who doesn't?

Anyway, something happened to me in New Orleans. Some part of me...unspooled. I think it's been happening for a little over a year, starting right about the time I decided to quit law for good and do whatever it took to start enjoying my life. By the time I got to my birthday in New Orleans, I think the last of whatever it was that I've been hanging onto, whatever it is that's been holding me back, just fell away.

I drank like I never have. I danced in the street. I ate good food, and lots of it. I bought all the prettiest perfumes I could find: magnolias and honeysuckles, leathers and mosses, and I have been wearing them ever since. And when the little old Irish men paraded by asking for a kiss on the cheek, I kissed them twice and took their roses and and then I took some more.

While I was there, I just…woke up. I was happy. I was alive. It's like I was under some terrible spell I hadn't even known had been cast, and something about the briny Gulf air and dark roux and sweet rum and loud music woke me up inside.

I don't wanna go back to sleep any more.

"Well, genocide always seems like such a good idea at the time."

So here I am on my first plane, which will land in Amsterdam, technically, tomorrow morning. My grandmother never got to go to Europe. My Pawpaw did, for the war, but they never went back. I don't think he ever wanted to. That's usually how these things go in a life. Men go; women stay home, or if they're lucky, like when my grandmother was when my Pawpaw got stationed in Guam, they get taken along for the ride. But they don't just go -- not by themselves, not alone, not out into that great wide unknown. Chalk it up to traditional child rearing roles or women having less personal wealth or some sort of cultural impetus that makes one think that this is the way of the world, but women don't go.

I am not going to be one of those women.

I am going to Africa, and I am going right now, right as I write you these words. I am going to see someone like me: someone brave and amazing, a woman I love and adore, who has moved to Rwanda alone, just her and the cat and the dog. And next year, with a little planning and luck, I am going to go see another woman I love in England, and with her I will finally get to go to Paris and visit Grasse, which I think is what perfume people think heaven must be like.

"Thank God we can't tell the future. We'd never get out of bed."

I am going to Africa, where the women I come from, like my grandmother, have never been. And I will laugh. And I will drink. And I will dance. And I will live for my grandmother and every woman before her and hope that she would be proud of me, even as I fail. Even when I fall. I am going to see gorillas and walk through trees and help navigate as Ashley drives us across the country.

I am going to Rwanda. I wonder if my grandmother would have liked it. Knowing her, she would have complained it wasn't enough like home. But I like to think that whatever part of her lives on in me is going to have a good time just the same. And in the end, that's the best gift you can give anyone you have loved and lost. You can take them with you and give that little part of them the chance to keep right on living with every breath you take.

"Listen to me. Die after me, alright? I don't care what else you do, where you go, how you screw up your life. Just... Survive. Please."

I may not get everything right in my life. I may die still heavily in debt. I may never be notable or accomplished in my professional life. I may never have a family. Those are all things I may not be able to control.

But if that's the way things are going to go, I say -- let it. Let me die young. Let me die penniless. Let me die alone. Only let me live first. Let me laugh and dance and sing without fear or caring about how I look to other people. Let me feel something, anything, for as long as I am able.

Then when that inevitable day comes, at least I will be able to look at it and say, to paraphrase Connie Willis:

"Death. Now that would be an awfully big adventure."

_________
FN1. For the record, it was this, Frozen, or Philomena based on my tastes. I think I chose well.

FN2. I am only just realizing as I write you these words that she was thirty-six when she left us. That's new information for me, consciously at least. I wonder if I've been unconsciously thinking for a while.

In which Diana goes to Rwanda...

2014-03-30T10:21:00.000-07:00

Dear reader:

I'm going to tell you a story.

One of the worst days of my life was the day Luvine Martin Wiener died. Though it's been over a decade, I can still remember every terrible moment of the day I put my grandmother in that soggy, tar choked earth. It was early July. I remember because I had my first starring role in a musical opening the week of the Fourth and she was going to come see me.

Then she wasn't.

So it was July, early July, high summer in Texas. I had to drive a long way to get to the graveside service, which was held in Batson Prairie. Batson Prairie has got to be the most godawful boring places in the world. Part of the reason is, much like the contested land between Israel and Palestine, Batson Prairie is a place that doesn't exist, really. The closest you can even get in terms of geographic acknowledgement is Batson.

Batson, Texas is an unincorporated community located on State Highway 105 in southwestern Hardin County. The entire sum total of Batson's history can be found on Wikipedia in no more than four lines:

This community was originally settled by the Batson family sometime before 1840. In October 1903, an oilfield was discovered to the north of the town, and soon after the population would boom to about 10,000 residents. The oil production would decrease by the mid-1920s, resulting in the population decline to about 600. In March 1935, another oil discovery would boost the population slightly, but over the next several decades, would decline again.

This is a place that only ever existed for the exclusive purpose of pulling crude out of the ground. Even in the best of times, it was a hard scramble place, one where, in the good years, kids got a pair of shoes for Christmas, and in the bad ones, a single piece of fruit. I know, because my grandmother told me once, how they got oranges in her stocking one year and how special it was.

This is where my grandmother is buried.

She grew up in the neighboring town of Saratoga, Texas. Once known as New Sour Lake, the town was renamed in a failed attempt to draw tourists to the hot springs of East Texas by echoing the name of the famous New York resort. Saratoga, was -- if you can even imagine it -- even smaller than Batson, where the population fluctuated from 1000 in 1925 down to 350 in the early 1950s.

This is a notable period because my grandmother was born in 1927 and lived there until 1945. In a world of small town girls, she was a tall strikingly beautiful girl in a town made for Thumbelina's smaller sisters. Then she moved to Houston, married my grandfather, and before too long found herself living in Guam while my grandfather was stationed there during Korea. She flew on planes. She sailed on military ships. She lived on a tropical island and worked in the secretarial pool. For a woman from no where, this must have been quite an adventure.

I've been thinking about her a lot lately, about how it must have been to go to Guam and live there on the base with my grandfather. I think about how strange and exotic it must have seemed, both to her and the people back home she sent postcards to. I've been thinking about how much she must have seen in comparison to the kids she grew up with, how her life must have taken her farther than she'd imagined as a girl, to places more remote and strange than she couldn't have envisioned.

I've been thinking about this because in nineteen days, I am getting on a plane to Africa.

Through the generosity of a close friend, I have been given an almost free trip (airfare, housing) to Kigali, Rwanda. This trip will include a volcano safari to see the gorillas in the mist.

I will get there flying through Amsterdam, where I have a few days to spend on my way home with a coworker to see a little bit of The Netherlands. I will be gone for almost a month, some of it as a working vacation. Thanks to my terrific employer, I have the ability to leave for this incredibly long amount of time and still keep my job. Not only are they allowing me to go, they're excited for me, which is a testament to the wonderful people I work with and how much my life has improved with my new circumstance.

Until now, my travel abroad experience has consisted of a single day spent in Victoria, British Columbia. As it stands today, I don't even have a stamp in my passport.

But in a few short weeks, all of that will change. I would be lying if I said I wasn't nervous, but I'm more excited than anything else. All my life, I've wanted adventure. If this doesn't qualify, I don't know what does.

So if I'm a little absentee over the next few weeks, dear reader, I apologize. I have a lot of ducks to get in a row before I leave, but I promise, there will be updates aplenty, and some of them will even be perfume related. Because this is part working vacation, you can even expect some updates from Kigali in May.

So stick with me while I'm away, will you? We're about to have a wild ride.

Today is my birthday, and I'm riding high...

2014-03-08T23:55:00.001-08:00

Today is, in fact, my birthday as the post title says.

Happy birthday to me.

So far I have watched youtube videos, ordered some makeup, watched the birds ans squirrels fight over the feeders in the backyard, ate a fancy French brunch with el Hubs, and now I'm watching vampire TV (The Vampire Diaries, The Originals) while I write to you.

Three days and counting...

The last couple of weeks have been busy, but next week I get a bit of a break. On Wednesday I'm heading to New Orleans for a five day birthday trip. I'll be meeting up with my best gal pal, the lovely and legendary Kate, whose birthday is a mere six days before mine. When we planned our trip, we both managed to miss the fact that we were planning to hit the Big Easy right in the middle of their St. Patrick's Day festivities, but we've decided to embrace the chaos in the spirit of Laissez les bons temps rouler!

This week was the annual Lewis & Clark Gender Symposium, and yes, I presented again. This year I did a panel with some lovely friends – YA author and alumna Marni Bates, teen library extraordinaire and alumna Lauren Furnish, and YA/NA author Lisa Burstein – on media bias against women – both authors and as a protagonists – in Young Adult literature. Our session wasn't the panel I was most excited about, though. I was most excited for a presentation by Magical Girl Makeup. MGM is a senior at Lewis & Clark and did an interesting presentation related to her senior anthropology thesis, which on make-up culture on youtube.

birthday girl...

I've been getting into make-up and Youtube lately, but only as a spectator. I was looking forward to the presentation because I was excited to hear what a feminist who was not only consuming the media but also creating it would have to say about it. MGM had some interesting things to say about the subversion of the male gaze by creating a space and community where performances are not for the male gaze, but created for the individual YouTuber and their fans, who they imagine to be much like themselves. Through an emphasis on things like “my perfect imperfection” and a willingness to openly discuss bad skin, acne, and other less than desirable physical attributes, these spaces cut against the perfect image that is demanded by the performative nature of the male gaze. Further, the emphasis on using makeup to make oneself feel good seems to be the focus of the videos, rather than making one acceptable to someone else.

On the whole it was a really engaging presentation and something I got a lot out of. I know we're supposed to be talking perfume, but if you're interested in make-up YouTube culture or want to watch a budding MUA feminist talk lipsticks and eye shadows, check out MGM's videos. She's not going for a traditional makeup look, but rather a magical one (e.g. glitter, sparkles, lots of bright colors), which I enjoy. It's like watching a real live, sometimes slightly vulgar fairy do make-up.

My log does not judge...

A for perfume for my birthday, I rode into my thirty-sixth year wearing Jo Malone Sweet Lime and Cedar. I picked it, I think, because David got me a cedar bird feeder and a lo shaped pillow for my birthday that looks like The Log Lady's log in Twin Peaks, so I was feeling a little woodsy I guess.

I'll be back with a review this week, and maybe a post on hitting up some perfume shops in New Orleans, which is on my list of things to do.

Until then, I guess I'll continue on with my birthday. My roommates got me a birthday pie, and I think I might be able to manage a slice.

Til next time, happy sniffing.

I'm little, but I'm coming for the crown.
I'm little, but I’m coming for you.
(Chase paper, get it)
I'm little but I’m coming for the title
held by everyone who’s up...
All work and no play never made me lose it.
All business all day keeps me up a level.
All work and no play keeps me on the new shit, yeah...
All work and no play; let me count the bruises.
All business all day keeps me up a level.
All work and no play lonely on the new shit, yeah, yeah...
Only bad people live to see their likeness set in stone.
What does that make me?
~ “Still Sane,” Lorde

I'll be a thorn in your side till you die.

2014-02-17T06:00:00.000-08:00

Review of Naomi Goodsir Bois d'Ascese

I know, I know. I'm back! Again! Two weeks in a row!

You're so excited.

You just can't hide it.

You're about to…

...read a blog post. It's a blog post, Diana. It is not the beginning of a full-tilt musical number, no matter what a lifetime of Grease sing-a-longs and special musical episodes of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer and Psych might otherwise lead you to believe.

Sigh.

A girl can dream, can't she?

Let's talk about things that cause me to dream a little, shall we? This EW cover right here is a dream come true. I have been a huge fan of Veronica Mars for a very long time and this movie is something I have literally dreamed of. FN1.

The Veronica Mars pre-sale movie tickets go on sale today so get thee to an online vendor and buy yours now! I would love it if VM ended up having one of the biggest opening weekends at the box office this year so far. It would not only lend credence to the idea that Networks should listen more to fans and critics when they say a show is too good to cancel, but also will support more fan driven reboots negotiations. FN2.

You know why I am such a hardcore VM fan? Yes, it is in part because Veronica Mars might be the most feminist show I've seen on television in the last ten or so years, possibly ever. It's also in part because it is a terrific neo-noir, which is the modernization of my favorite of all story-telling genres.

But for me a lot of it has to do with the impossible, difficult, somewhat insane romance between our beloved marshmallow Veronica Mars and the deeply damaged obligatory psychopath Logan Echolls.

Their on-again-off-again romance is something you don't see coming until it's happening to them, and to you, the viewer. They are these terribly angry, terribly hurt, terribly sad people who manage to show each other protection and kindness despite every reason not to, and that kindness is enough to break through. While I was never like that - never hard or resistant to love, more inclined to race toward the cliff with both arms flung wide like I couldn't possibly hit the ground, no matter how many times I fell -- I love the idea that two people can accidentally fall into each other, through one another's walls, and unexpectedly change each other's lives forever.

Finding a new perfume you love is sometimes like that. You're going along, ho hum, boring floral here, repetitive aquatic there, and then something comes along that surprises you. That's what happened when I tried Naomi Goodsir Bois d'Ascese.

Naomi Goodsir Bois d'Ascese is described by Luckyscent as:

A meditative swirl of serene incense, intensified by smoked wood. At first, this brings to mind a stark, secluded chapel and a life of plain and simple pleasures. But as it develops, notes of whiskey, tobacco and cinnamon begin to shimmer through the incense, and you start to think that perhaps these pleasures won’t be quite so plain, after all. If you have ever enjoyed a fine Islay Scotch whiskey, such as Lagavulin or Laphroaig, you are familiar with the way the intricacies of smoke and moss add a complicated and enigmatic appeal – harsh and medicinal one moment, mesmerizing the next. The layers of smoked cade wood, oakmoss and whiskey have a similar effect here, as bracing jolts of smoke morph into the airy tranquility of incense, keeping us endlessly intrigued and hopelessly addicted. A starkly elegant fragrance that puts us in a trance.

Notes: tobacco, whiskey, cinnamon, amber, cistus labdanum, oakmoss, smoked cade wood, Somalian incense

On my skin Naomi Goodsir Bois d'Ascese brushes on as lemon softness that fades almost immediately into polished woods, aging paper, and a gentle incense blend that reminds me, not of church, but of a grand and incredibly old library. Not a stuffy library, nothing so drab or dreary, but instead something that holds secrets and magic, untold mystery and journeys beyond imagination, the library at Hogwarts, for example, or perhaps the lost library of Alexandria. A voluminous room with high ceilings full of softly glowing golden light, a space filled with the hushing sound of turning pages and the smell of aging scrolls, pages yellowing to a thin and fragile thing both brittle and luminescent in it opacity. And last, but certainly not least, that slightly burnt smell of tallow and wax sealed pages and a gentle kind of incense that clings to one's clothes after departure, something that hints at the intrigue held in those great and strange tomes.

I love the smell of it against my skin - the way it is secretive and somehow warm and cool at the same time. It's a lovely scent, and in my opinion, in no way exclusively masculine, thought it appears intended as such. I think it's a beautiful scent. I feel lucky it found its way into my life.

Naomi Goodsir Bois d'Ascèse is available in 50ml for $150.00.

"I'll be a thorn in your side
for always.
If we sink,
we lift our love."
~ "We Sink," Chvrches

Want more? Try...
~ a review from Kevin at Now Smell This!
~ a review from Kafkaesque
~ a review from Sorcery of Scent
~ a review from The Scentualist
~ a review from I Smell Therefore I Am
~ a review from Notable Scents

_____________________

FN1. Also, Jason Dohring, more times than I can admit without embarrassment. He has actually gotten hotter with age. How is that possible? How!?! Look at those arms? And the smolder? I think he has gotten BETTER at the smolder, and I didn't think that was humanly possible.

Now if you'll just excuse me…I think…I think I need a moment. *fans self*

FN2. It will also help lessen my personal sorrow at the low box office numbers for Vampire Academy, which I saw on its Friday opening and thought was terrific. More on that in a separate post, though.

I cannot believe it.

2014-02-10T09:34:00.002-08:00

Review of By Kilian Good Girl Gone Bad

I cannot believe how long it has been since I last posted.

Have I stopped loving perfume? No.

Have I stopped wearing perfume? No.

Have I stopped buying perfume? No. I admit I've slowed down some, but I've already made my first purchases of 2014 and we're only a month in.

So why did I stop posting? Some if it has to do with decreasing free time and increasing work responsibility. Some of it has to do with feeling like I don't have much to say, which is silliness because actually things are happening all the time. So the answer is, no good reason certainly. And time to correct it, I think.

One of my coworkers told me around the holidays that I always smell like "Christmas and deliciousness." That's a pretty nice compliment. (Though I was wearing Jo Malone Bitter Orange & Chocolate at the time, so it was also quite accurate). Another coworker sent me this NPR piece Friday entitled, "Perfume's Scents Of Subversion? Sweat, Musk And Patchouli" and said, "At first I thought it was you."

So obviously, perfume? Still a huge part of my life. Right now Portlandia is covered in a crazy ice storm and I am wearing By Kilian Good girl gone Bad while I watch vampire movies and try to entertain my cats. Part of the "In the Garden of Good and Evil" collection, the scent is described as:

A sensual and unrestrained temptation. The perfume opens on the fresh innocence of the petals of Jasmin Sambac and the Apricot sweetness of Chinese Osmanthus. Letting go of their demure appearances, the flowers toss off their inhibitions and reveal their decadent side! The Rose of May gives off its honeyed heat. The Indian Tuberose nakedly exhibits its milky roundness, while the narcotic sensuality of Egyptian Narcissus surges forth, uncontrollable and deliciously haunting. Notes of Virginia Cedar and Amber open up and try to assert their dominant character.

I have to say, I'm usually a sucker for By Kilian scents, but this one isn't what I expected. Maybe it's because I have sweat, musk, and patchouli on the brain, but this one just isn't happening for me.

According to LuckyScent, the notes are plenty floral but there seemed like there was enough dirty fleshy bottom notes in the mix I thought I might like it: Jasmin Sambac, osmanthus, rose, tuberose, narcissus, violet accord, plum accord, cedar wood, amber, patchouli, vetiver, musk.

I've tried Good girl twice now, and I have to sadly report that for me? It does not work. Nope. It landed on my skin as a hot mess of florals and screechy white musk, overwhelming amber, and fake woods. I do get some peachy stone fruit in the middle, which is nice-ish, but it is just ruined by the almost headache inducing noise of the rest.

I feel both relieved and disappointed. On the one hand, I love a lot of the By Kilian perfumes and they are so expensive that it gives me and my wallet great sadness. So in that sense, I feel like I missed a bullet. But on the other hand, there are folks out there who really like this one and get a lovely scent I wish I had the chance to experience. Seriously. I wish I was getting "slut in a lovely Dior gown" but that is not what is happening for me. Instead, the whole thing feels like a terribly awkward seduction. It's like a preteen with braces trying too hard to be sexy in her middle school frump wear. In fact, it most called to mind that scene when Dawn tries to seduce the lead singer of her older brother's band in Welcome to the Dollhouse. FN2. That is not attractive.

Victoria did a nice little rant on the name of the scent, which I feel inclined to agree with. I'm not much for slut shaming, and I tend to think she's right that this what the "gone bad" is meant to imply. You know, in the same way that terrible Robin Thicke song wants to do things with 'a good girl.' FN1. I understand the need to feel subversive, but at the same time, you do kind of question whether playing into the the madonna/whore trope is a good idea. I think the name would bother me less if the copy cut against the idea, but alas, alack, it doesn't.

In the end, Good girl gone Bad is a pass for me. But maybe you'll get lucky like some of the other reviewers who really liked it.

Want more? Try...
~ A review from The Non-Blonde
~ A review from EauMG
~ A review from That Smell
~ A review from Make Perfume, Not War
~ A review from My Perfume Diaries
~ A review from Ça Fleure Bon
~ A review from Perfume Posse

______________
FN1. Can't believe it took me this long to get around to posting the Feminist Parody, Defined Lines, on this blog. LOVE.IT.

FN2. If anyone comments on the name similarity, I will be most displeased.

Halloween Make-Up Fun!: Once Again, With Feeling

2013-11-21T08:00:00.000-08:00

My third and final costume, and the one I actually wore for Halloween since my work had our official dress up day and costume contest on Wednesday, October 30, was a last minute idea. I was actually working from home on Halloween because I was fighting the creeping ear/nose/throat crude.

Costume Number One: Mystic Falls Vampire

I've always used a vampire as a fallback costume because it requires nothing more than fangs, but since I was on a fancy make-up roll this year, I decided to look at different vampire looks on Pinterest. I was surprised by the varied approaches to doing vampire make-up (though I noticed absolutely no one was covered in sparkly glitter). One that appealed a lot to me, though, was surprisingly simple when I started looking at how-to videos.

What really appealed to me was the messy wet mouth look, the one that says, "Hi, don't mind all the blood, I was just eating." I would never have thought to get all crazy smear-y before looking through photos, but once I did, my immediate presumption was that it would require some costume make-up. Given that I was more or less housebound due to unwell feelings, I did not have the inclination to go out to buy anything.

Luckily, it turned out it was a pretty easy look to do with what I had on hand. But first! The face. Once again, I used MAKE UP FOR EVER HD Microperfecting Primer in Mauve to move my natural paleness even further toward ivory. Then I mixed on my normal base, MAKE UP FOR EVER Mat Velvet + Matifying Foundation in Ivory, with some of my leftover MAKE UP FOR EVER Aquarelle in Pearly White. Thanks to the amazing powers of the BEAUTY BLENDER, possibly the greatest single improvement in make-up application ever, I ended up appropriately and wonderfully pale without feeling coated with make-up even though I was, in face, covered.

For my cheeks, I used URBAN DECAY COSMETICS Naked Flushed to add in shadowing under my cheekbones and some contouring around my hair and jawline.Lastly, I added an extremely light coating of MAKE UP FOR EVER HD Microfinish Powder to set my face.

Now that I was thoroughly and deathly pale, I went to work on my mouth. It turns out that if you want a crazy, "Don't mind me, I was just feeding on the blood of the innocent" look, it's actually surprisingly cheap and easy to obtain.

The first thing I did was outline my lips and then fill them in with the bloodiest lip pencil I could find. I tried a couple but the real winner was the cheap but surprisingly creamy and luxurious MILANI Color Statement Lipliner in True Red. Seriously, this $4.00 lip pencil kicks serious butt.

Then I applied a healthy layer of WET N WILD GLASSY GLOSS Lip Gel Through the Looking Glass, a clear glossy gloss that cost me a whole $3.00. Next -- and this was the crazy, hilariously easy part that never would have occurred to me if I hadn't seen a how-to video to prove it -- I took the pads of my fingers and dragged them through my freshly done lips, down my chin and even over a little to my cheek. Then I reapplied the lipliner and gel and did it again! Yep. That was the secret. Fill, cover, drag your hand over your mouth until you reach desired disgustingness.

Once I was appropriate covered in smears I outlined by lips one last time, added a light coating of MAKE UP FOR EVER Rouge Artist Intense in Moulin Rouge, and then finished it off with one last coat of the lip gel to complete my wet lip look.

Moving to my eyes, I knew I wanted a dramatic look to match the eyes. I looked at red eyed looks and decided I would do one that was both heavy on the black and the red, because really -- when else does a girl get to rock that look on a random Thursday? The first thing I did was use a cheap black liquid liner, MAYBELLINE Eye Studio Master Duo Eyeliner in Black, to put down a heavy black base outlining my eye. I used a smudge brush to diffuse the line. The I laid a layer of URBAN DECAY Crave over it, covering my lid.

In the crease, I laid down a layer of SEPHORA COLLECTION Colorful Eyeshadow in Cherries On Top, then used a brush to blend it up and outward with both, carrying the colors across the whole of my lid. I then blended the crave into it, adding more as needed to fill in my crease but maintaining a defused red aura around it.

Next, I added an additional layer of Cherries On Top below my lower lid eyeliner, then used an angled brush to create a streaky veined accent down into my cheek. These reddish veins were a last minute impulse accent, and it wasn't until someone pointed it out to me later that I'd essentially done something similar to the vamp face on The Vampire Diaries that I realized that's where I'd pulled if from. Subconsciously all I knew was that my eye look didn't seem 'finished' without them. I added a white eyeliner along the inside of my bottom lashes to bring up the contrast, which I think worked out nicely.

Lastly, I added a set of SEPHORA COLLECTION Fringe Benefits Lashes along my top lashes, filled in with a little extra eyeliner, and then swept them up with a lash curler and a healthy coating of BENEFIT COSMETICS They're Real! Mascara.

I added a fake bite on my wrist and neck as final make-up touches. It was surprisingly easy to make the bites look a little bloody. I made two heavy dots with BENEFIT COSMETICS Benetint, a rosy lip and cheek stain that I adore, and let the stain run a little, then added a teensy dot of the aforementioned black eyeliner in the center.

For a costume, I wore a short sleeved, floor length maxi dress, which was very comfortable and a pair of dangly rhinestone earrings to add some bling. The whole thing was comfortable, easy, and meant that I looked like I'd put a lot of effort into a costume that took me very little effort.

Sadly, we didn't have a single trick-or-treater this year. By the end of the evening, I was feeling a little better, and David took me to the local 24-hour diner to get soup and pie. It wasn't an ideal holiday this year, but it was plenty enough for me.

And thus wraps our Halloween make-up review!

I have to say, one of the great things about this Halloween was how much I got to experiment with make-up. Growing up today must be so different for girls without mothers. My grandmother was never one much for getting creative with the beauty products, and though my mom was an adept hand with a make-up brush, she was gone by the time I could have really used her help.

Nowadays, there are blogs and articles and even whole YouTube channels where talented amateurs and even professional make-up artists will teach you everything you need to know. I love that. I love that this crazy community of people can come together through the silent electric pulses down the wire to provide the kind of guidance I never had on a whole host of topics, including how to do your make-up so you don't end up with a lot of unfortunately teenage photographs.

I love that they will tell you how to do it on the cheap, and which drugstore lipsticks are duplicate colors for the expensive kinds I could never have afforded as a girl. I love that competence in blending in can come a little easier for some girl out there like me.

And, as a feminist, let me say this: I like make-up. I like the art and artistry of it. I don't feel compelled to wear make-up. In truth, since I moved to the Pacific Northwest, I've been made fun of more often for wearing make-up than not. I wear it because I like it. I like the costume aspects of it. I like the way it allows one to acknowledge the constructed nature of gender. In that way, perhaps my attitude toward make-up is something akin to that of someone who enjoys drag.

As Ru Paul once eloquently pointed out, “We're born naked, and the rest is drag.” Perhaps one of the nicest things about the how-tos of cosmetics in the digital age is that has never been more apparent how much of what women are being sold is constructed, which not only makes learning to control and vary our own physical appearance easier, but also allows us all to see more clearly just how fake it all was to begin with.

Halloween Make-Up Fun!: The Sequel

2013-11-19T08:00:00.000-08:00

My second costume and second make-up day this year was a quick costume I threw together to attend an evening event several days before Halloween. I needed something I could wear during the day because I did not have time to run home after work to change, something that was kid friendly, because this was a kid oriented event, and something that fit the theme of entertaining kids at a party. Necessity being the mother of invention, I grabbed this glass globe I have from Ikea and declared myself a fortune teller.

Costume Number Two: Fortune Teller

This costume came about primarily based on a scarf I bought that features an awesome skull (right). As I was looking at it, it just seemed like the perfect thing to build a costume around.

I skipped the primer this time, and went straight to my normal base, MAKE UP FOR EVER Mat Velvet + Matifying Foundation in Ivory. I didn't mind my undertones coming through here since I knew I was going for a dark pink and purple palette.

For my eye color, I turned to URBAN DECAY's Ammo Palette. I love Urban Decay. I used to think that all eye shadows were more or less created equal. Within the last year or two, though, thanks largely in part to my friend Thu, who has this great blog you should check out. Part of the magic is definitely URBAN DECAY's Eyeshadow Primer Potion. However, having tried other shadows with it a shadow primer, I have to say, it's more than that. Urban Decay shadows have great pigment and staying power.

At this point, I have a couple of Urban Decay palettes, most of them relatively small. I have a couple of Sephora palettes, some Wet & Wild palettes, and a few other items, but nothing beats those UD palettes. (I don't have the Vice or Naked Palettes, but I soooo want them.) Anyway, between Grifter and Last Call over a URBAN DECAY's Naked Basics base of Walk of Shame and Faint made for a very nice eye.

Once again, I busted out my KAT VON D Tattoo Liner in Trooper, which is really easy to do wings by the way. Then I layered with SEPHORA COLLECTION Glitter Eyeliner in Purple on top. I love the Sephora Glitter Eyeliners, and I am quite sad they appear to be discontinuing them. You have to give them a good solid 45 seconds with your eyes closed to let the liner dry so you don't get a weird crease line, but if you do it stays on all day. And I mean, alllllll day.

I finished off my eyes with BENEFIT COSMETICS They're Real! Mascara. As mascaras go, I like this one, but I also admit to not having tried all that many mascaras. (I really want SEPHORA FAVORITES Lash Stash. I have for several years. Maybe I'll pull the trigger on it this year.) I really like the wand that comes with They're Real!

For my blusher, I applied what has got to my be all time favorite bronzer, BENEFIT COSMETICS Duo Bronzer Ten. (Benefit has discontinued this particular bronzer because apparently they know I am in love and they hate me.) Then I added ORIGINS Brush-on Color in Mulberry. I bought the Mulberry years ago on a bad recommendation from a sales assistant. It's really too dark for daily use but I find it comes in handy for dramatic looks like this one.

For the lip, BUXOM Full-On Lip Cream in Lavender Cosmo layered with SEPHORA COLLECTION Ultra Shine Lip Gloss in Shimmery Glowing Amethyst. I don't usually (or really ever) sport a lip in the plum family, but with the rest of the make-up, it really worked. I'm sort of excited it made the trend list this fall or I might never have tried it at all!

I also did my nails in Sephora OPI What a Broad, which has been discontinued in the wake the great Sephora/OPI split. Sephora is now doing their own nail color line, Formula X, which I hope to god is better than their old Sephora line, which was some of the worst nail polish I ever used. It was cheap, which was great, but it was so plastic that it literally peels away in one plastic sheet within an hour or two of putting it on.

In the end, everyone at work was, ummm, a little unclear I guess on whether I was in costume or just trying a new look. I'm going to take this as a compliment to my make-up skills rather than an insult to my general fashion choices. While the style was described variously as "gypsy vagrant" and "gyp-ster," I like to think that mostly means that my make-up, which I thought was quite dramatic, was something I could pull off on a normal day or evening out as long as my clothing was...less bohemian.

As for scents, I took a moment to consider what the inside of my fortune teller's den would smell like: incense smoke, herbals teas, lamp oil, and worn, aged paper. In the end I settled on L'Artisan Tea for Two, which is both lovely and seasonally appropriate for Fall.

What about you, dear reader? Have you ever worn a costume only to find out that people couldn't actually tell you were in costume?

Halloween Make-Up Fun!

2013-11-17T08:00:00.000-08:00

This year I had so many social obligations in October it made my head spin. A lot of them were costume-related affairs -- parties, volunteering, work costume contest, etc. While I admit it was initially daunting, it was also a great opportunity to stretch myself creative and, in terms of make-up, artistically. I started looking at costumes almost a month in advance and settled on sticking with costumes that used my own clothes and relied more on a little make-up magic to sell them than on buying anything.

In the end I settled on three completely different costumes, each with it's own separate make-up palette and scent profile. I thought it would be fun to share these with you.

Costume Number One: Pop Art/Lichtenstein Girl

This was my big costume, the one that I wore to a costume party thrown by a coworker, and also the one I wore to work for the work costume contest. It was inspired by the artwork of Roy Lichtenstein, like this piece on the right.

I got the idea from looking at different make-up profiles on Pinterest and once it took root in my brain, it simply would not let go. I liked the bold colors. I liked that I could wear my own clothes. And I liked that this costume did not require me looking like anyone else -- a celebrity or character -- just myself, but like a comic book version.

The most fun part of this Halloween costume was that instead of spending money on costume clothing that I will never wear again, I had an excuse to spend some money on fancy make-up from Sephora. Since this was going to be an intensive cosmetic effort, I knew it would take a lot of products, especially colors I don't normally wear from day to day.

Since I had a full day before the party, I took my time the first round, making sure I had a pretty good handle on the techniques before moving on. I knew I'd have significantly less time when I tried again on the morning before work. The following documents my process the first time through.

The first thing I did was thoroughly clean my face and moisturize. I know that sounds simple, but if you're going to put on an epic amount of make-up, I wanted to make sure I wasn't all going to be going directly into my pores. Then I put used MAKE UP FOR EVER HD Microperfecting Primer in Mauve to help reduce any potential yellowing in my already pasty skin. I already owned it for doing Gatsby period make-up earlier in the year, so I had it on hand. Then I put on my normal base, MAKE UP FOR EVER Mat Velvet + Matifying Foundation in Ivory. For me, this creates a pretty flat, pale palette.

Then I started in on the outlines. I bought a brand new KAT VON D Tattoo Liner in Trooper, then promptly set it aside and pulled out the one I already owned. I decided I would kill my old pen, and since this is by far my absolute favorite black eyeliner, I wanted to still have one when I was finished.

What do I love about it? It's basically like using a Sharpie on your skin. It's easy to use, waterproof, and yet still comes off quickly with a little eye make-up remover. I actually tried doing this with a cheap liquid liner first, and let me tell you -- it was worth using up an expensive pen to get the lines right. Since the Tattoo Liner dries almost immediately, it helps you avoid the crazy smeary mess of using a real liquid liner. Also if you screw up drawing the lines like I did, it allows you to remove small sections without a lot of weird smearing.

For my eye color, I used MAKE UP FOR EVER Pure Pigments in Yellow. I picked it despite seeing a lot of blues and purples in the photos online because it seemed super cartoonish, and it was a color I would never otherwise wear. The red lip was courtesy MAKE UP FOR EVER Rouge Artist Intense in Moulin Rouge. I used a pop-up lip brush from Sephora to color in my lips and to leave the white spot, which was filled in with a cheap white eye pencil I had already.

For the white dots, which was by far the most time consuming part of the costume, I used MAKE UP FOR EVER Aquarelle in Pearly White. I chose this instead of white for the slightly reflective quality the pearlized white had. I found a how-to online that recommended using the end of a brush or pencil to make the dots, and it was a great recommendation.

This might be the one of the only products of the whole lot that wasn't 100% perfect for my purposes. It doesn't smear once it dries, but it does tend to flake. This meant it tended to flake away and fade over time, but it was better than any of the smeary other make-up options I had looked at.

The other product that I wasn't thrilled with was ANASTASIA BEVERLY HILLS Hypercolor Brow and Hair Powder in In The Pink. I should have known it wasn't going to go well with the word "hypercolor" involved, but I decided to try. Part of the reason I chose the teal sweater for the party is that it was a high contrast color for the pinked hair I was sporting. The problem with the hair powder is that it got just everywhere, even with me using gloves and covering myself with a towel like a cape. It took several days to get the pink off the back of my neck; it looked like I had a weird sunburn. Also, I did not feel like it made enough of a difference for the time it took to put in and take out, so I skipped it the day I wore this costume to work.

The final results? I wore the teal sweater on Saturday to the party and the black and white polka dots (below) to work. I ended up taking third in the company costume party in large part because most people had no idea who Lichtenstein is or what pop art is. This is not a new costume choice phenomenon with me, as I have spent most of my life explaining my costumes to everyone.

In the end, I was beat out by a group Duck Dynasty costume and a very impressive Star Trek/Zachary Quinto Spock. But I had a lot of fun doing all my make-up, and that was really the point of it. Besides, for the people who did get my costumes? I was getting amazingly positive feedback all over the place.

I wore different scents for the two different events. For the party, I wore the period appropriate Worth Je Reviens, which I really enjoy. It was nice to feel like I'd stepped right out of the pages of a '60's comic book.

For the work day Lichtenstein, I wore Prada Infusion D'Iris. I picked it because I thought it was a fun, light, flirty scent that seemed like an olfactory equivalent of pop art. Given that irises are so often serious, expensive, exquisitely beautiful scents, I felt like Infusion D'Iris was captured the fun equivalent that Pop Art is, and yet manages to be good in its own right.

So there it is! Costume number one (and three) of four total dress up days this year. How about you, dear reader? What scents do you think fit the theme of Pop Art girl?

On Being A Corpse Flower

2013-10-25T06:00:00.000-07:00

One of the most common questions in response to my interest in perfumery is one I suspect every diehard marginalized hobbyist encounters with some regularity. “Oh, that's interesting. How did you get into that?”

I smelled like this...

I've told the story of how I came to clutch my first few sample vials a couple of times here on Feminine Things., but I don't think I've ever told the story of the moment I knew that this wasn't a temporary interest, but a lifelong passion I wouldn't be giving up. It wasn't when I first noticed my house was covered in smelly packages or that my collection was worth more than my car. It wasn't when I started carrying around a small tin of one milliliter glass samples of ten to fifteen scents at a time so I could, on a whim, whip out a new perfume and try it on or even just sniff lightly from the vial.

The moment I knew I had crossed the rubicon from someone who appreciates perfume into a true, diehard, lifelong perfume maniac came in one hard, somewhat hilarious slap to my fragile perfume ego.

I still remember it clearly. I woke up one morning, got dressed, carefully applied my make-up, and then completed my morning ritual the way I always do: I stand in front of a large cabinet of scents, trying to decide what I wanted to smell like for the day. Do I want to wear something only I can smell and enjoy, or do I want a scent someone else might notice? Do I want to wear the perfume or do I feel up to the challenge of trying out a perfume that will more or less wear me? Do I want to find comfort in a tried and true favorite, or boldly go where few olfactory explorers, including myself, have gone before? What do I want to say to the world today, or to myself?

On this particular occasion, I was feel daring. I would try something new, an impulse purchase from an indie perfumer I liked who was discontinuing a number of her scents and had offered them at essentially bargain basement prices. I'd tried the scent a little when I'd gotten it, but this would be my first full fledged wearing of the scent. I pulled a small one third ounce roller out and applied it amply – my wrists, my neck, the backs of my knees, even the dip of my cleavage. I smelled earthy with a hint of old, slightly mouldering moss that was covered in aged leather and coated in heaping dose of patchouli and civet. It was a powerful, rich, sexy perfume and I smelled wonderful.

...well....sort of.

With a spring in my step and a bass heavy song in my heart, I headed out the door and off to work. I was bouncing in time in my satin heels as I hummed all the way across the parking lot to my building. I said hello to the security guard and slid into the elevator, followed at the last minute by two women, their arms loaded down with folders and paperwork.

The women, who had been chatting quietly between themselves, became silent almost as soon as the doors closed. It seemed abrupt, but sometimes that happens in elevators, so I didn't think a lot of it. One of them started coughing, and I backed away a little, trying to avoid getting sick for the umpteeth time that year. The elevator pinged, the doors opened, and I exited quickly trying to outrun the germs and headed for a long day's slough in my cube.

I settled in and got to work, focused on the day's tasks. Occasionally, I would get a whiff of my lovely, sexy perfume, and I would give a small inward sigh of satisfaction. I loved it. I felt like I was some sort of woodland nymph, or like my Greek goddess namesake, Artemis, hunting through the woods with her bow and arrow.

About an hour after I arrived, the coworker who shared my cube wall abruptly stood up and headed for the kitchen, carrying his full trashcan in hand. “Great,” I thought. “That dude is finally emptying his trash.” A few minutes later he returned, and sat down. I could hear him banging agitatedly on his keyboard, but I tried to ignore it. After about ten minutes, he stood up again and began prowling around, openly sniffing at different people. Finally, and without any further introduction, he demanded, “Okay, who here smells like death?”

Dear reader, the death smeller was – you guessed it – me.

Titan Arum in close up.

As it turns out, not everyone enjoys the earth smell of rotting greenery, dirt, and yeah, shit. To me, I smelled primal. Sexy. Even, yes, dirty, but in the greatest way. To my coworker, I apparently smelled like something had died. I was a walking olfactory corpse. It was the perfume equivalent of aiming for goth girl reading Poe in a cemetery and instead managing to capture the smell of being found dead and half-eaten by cats after a week of decomposition when someone finally came to check on me because the mailbox was overflowing.

Now let me be clear: the perfume did not smell like death. It never did. But there was something about the combination of my own body chemistry that day and the somewhat inaccessible scent that made my coworker think that of rotting flesh and uncleaned litter boxes. And he was not nice about it, reader. He was on a mission to remove the death stink from his area. I snuck off to the bathroom and tried to scrub away the olfactory evidence with a wad of paper towels, then dabbed over it with an inoffensive aquatic sample I thought smelled like dish soap. When I returned to my desk, he was quiet, but it didn't matter. I was the death smeller, and everyone knew it.

Corpse Flower in bloom.

That was the moment I knew. Like the people who travel to experience the amorphophallus titanum bloom, those of us in the olfactory know become far more adventurous with our noses than any 'normal' person can really imagine. The Corpse Flower, as Titan Arum is more commonly known, is losing its natural habitat. For a flower the can go more than a decade between blooms, things don't look good on the survival front. And yet, I suspect few people will mourn the loss of a flower that has been described as smelling like rotting meat. But I will.

The truth is that the world is as full of smells as it is sights and sounds and tastes and touches. Like all those other senses, scent is evocative. Scent is illuminating. Scent is revolutionary. And that requires all kinds of scents and scent experiences, even challenging ones. We need to have our preconceptions of what someone should look like or sound like or, yes, even smell like, challenged. We need to be open to the possibility of something new, something different, and yes, even something 'bad.' And if that makes me a woman that smells like a Corpse Flower on occasion, then so be it. Let the zombie decay comparisons begin.

And for the record? I love my dirty perfume. I still have it. And my partner doesn't seem to think it smells like death at all.

__
License for Titan Arum in close up - some rights reserved by massmarrier
License for Corpse Flower in Bloom - some rights reserved by ingridtaylar.

We'll Never Be Royals.

2013-10-18T06:00:00.000-07:00

Internalized Criticism and My Perfume Collection

So one of the things I've been noticing lately is that I've been a little embarrassed about the way my perfume collection is settling out. I've stood in front of my perfume wardrobe, trying to decide what to write about, and I find a judgey little voice in my head criticizing my perfume choices. “Wow, you have a lot of this house, which isn't very well respected. Don't you think you should have more of that house instead?” I get dressed in the morning, and as I reach for something, this same voice slithers in. “Really? You're going to wear that, again? Isn't that a bit...pedestrian?”

Some days you'll only
accept the fanciest
of salads...

Yes, dear reader. I have a little perfume hater living inside me, and she is a critical little snipe who does not think my perfume collection is sophisticated enough, that I wear too many accessible and mainstream scents, and that I am not living up to my full perfumista potential. This same hater wants to know why I haven't gotten into collecting vintage scents more, why I haven't started studying French so I can really understand perfumery as an art and industry, and why I spent so much time running around the U.S. when I could just as easily be saving my pennies for a trip to Grasse.

Frankly, I'm kind of getting tired of the little hater. Sometimes I think she stands between me and my enjoyment of things I really like, no matter how widely accepted they are or how many supposed connoisseurs would turn up their perfectly trained noses at my collection. It's the same voice that makes me hide my affection for Taylor Swift and Lana Del Rey from my coworkers, to hide my Twilight fascination from my roommates, and to feel a certain reticence about telling people I write Young Adult novels.

Frankly, I like those things about myself. I enjoy and admire Taylor Swift as a song writer, even if she is young and her work, right now, reflects that. I think Lana Del Rey has talent despite a bad early album. FN1. I find the entire Twilight fandom interesting and entertaining and I love YA literature. I love writing YA. I want nothing more than to be published. And I'm tired of feeling judged by others and worse, prejudged by some internalized version of them, for not being cool enough. You know what? I'm not cool. I have never been cool. And in terms of perfume, I just need to accept that I'm probably not going to be cool there, either. And that's just going to have to be okay with me.

...but most days you just want
carbs with nutella and
bananas smeared on them.

This week I had a wonderful moment of olfactory delight when several people told me I smelled good. I spend a lot of time thinking about the way I smell and how I want to present myself from a scent perspective, so it's nice when people notice. Part of the winning combination this week is the addition of a new layer in my olfactory repertoire.

A few weeks ago, I broke down and bought myself two of the Jo Malone bath oils. I like them because, when mixed with water, the oils turn milky and don't leave a greasy sheen on the skin. I bought them in the two scents I tend to layer the most among the Jo Malone collection – Red Roses and Orange Blossom. My reasoning was that if these scents were layered underneath my perfume, even faintly, that it would be a nice combining experiment, and if I did not want to mix them, I could just skip the bath oil.

Three different people at work stopped me to tell me how good I smelled the day I layered Red Roses bath oil with a healthy dose of DSH Perfumes Hemlock. The result was strangely earthy and green, and yet also fresh, floral, and feminine. It walked the line between Red Roses primness and Hemlock's less traditionally feminine aspects. One of my coworkers, smiled, asked me if I was wearing something with roses in it, and then went on to tell me how his very first girlfriend had a rose body wash or scent and how he always associated the smell with first love. I love that. I love that he told me the story and I loved the slightly goofy grin he got on his face at the memory.

The truth is, I am a pretty simple person, scent wise. I have always loved the smell of roses. I am a sucker for a good vanilla. I generally enjoy sweet, foodie scents. Tobacco notes always remind me of my grandfather which I cannot get enough of, and I have a disproportionately high number of “beach-y” scents because I love the ocean so much that sometimes it's pull is like a siren's call I can't deny. In other words, I like a lot of scents traditionally marketed for women. I don't yearn for the difficult scents. I enjoy smelling them occasionally, and I appreciate their beauty, but honestly? I wear a lot of Jo Malone. I own a huge amount of L'Artisan, a disproportional amount really. I am very into ultra-realism, so I love CB I Hate Perfume and I have a scary amount of Demeter Fragrances which are an impulse shopping habit of mine. I am not embarrassed to own Stetson for Men, which I like wearing. I have favorite indie perfumes, and I tend to stick with them because I like what they do.

Someday, maybe I'll like Guerlain Mitsouko enough to own it. I do think it's a gorgeous scent. It took me a long time to like it, and then to love it. And I do. It's a difficult but beautiful scent. I just can't imagine reaching for it often enough to justify buying it. But life is long. Perhaps my Mitsouko days are still ahead of me. And if they aren't? I still smell pretty damned good, even if my tastes aren't as sophisticated as other perfumistas.

And that little voice in my head? Well, it can kiss my massive bottle collection.

And we'll never be royals.
It don't run in our blood.
That kind of luxe just ain't for us.
We crave a different kind of buzz.
Let me be your ruler.
You can call me queen bee.
And baby I'll rule.
I'll rule. I'll rule. I'll rule.
Let me live that fantasy.
~ “Royals,” Lorde
________

FN1. It's not like she's the first artist to have a bad early EP/album while she was figuring out her musical and personal identity. Y Can't Tori Read was no winner, and I'll never stop loving Tori Amos.

Is it gonna be the best time or am I just saying so?

2013-10-13T18:21:00.000-07:00

Dear reader,

I was doing a tally recently, and I realized I have traveled more this year than ever before in my life. For the purposes of record keeping, I though we'd do a little review:

January: Boston for job training
February: Seattle to visit LillieMae & Becca
March: The Dalles for my birthday
May: Port Angeles/Forks/Port Townsend/Olympia for things with David's family and writing
July: Nashville to see Kate; Boston for the company on-site; Boston/New Haven for Jason and Jill's wedding; Maine for vacation with David
September: Nashville to see Kate
October: Boston for work and to see Jill; Chicago to see LillieMae and Chad
November: Seattle to see Becca
December: A week at the Oregon Coast with David, Becca, Steven, and Kate

This doesn't even count my random trips to the coast. If 2013 has a theme, it appears to be that I cannot keep still. I was thinking recently that I've been feeling a little traveled out, and now I know why. I think for the rest of the year I'll be content to keep closer to home, though my intense yearning for the Olympic Peninsula tells me that I'll probably head that direction before my birthday.

What does all this running around mean? Well, for one thing, it means that I desperately owe my brother a trip home. It also means that I haven't been as present here as I'd like. It's been tough, particularly given that I've also had a new job this year and the learning curve was, and is, steep. I love what I do now, though, which is a huge gift. As afraid as I am to say it, dear reader, I'm happier than I have been in a long time.

At the same time, I've been entering a new phase of my perfume collecting. I feel like my tastes are starting to settle. I no longer feel that unquenchable urge to buy every single thing I smell that I like. I'm starting to look at my collection and feel like it's time to pare down a bit, time to give or trade away things I'm not really using to a better home.

Feminine Things. has been going for a little over five years now. I still can't believe that. I never imagined when I started this blog what a gift it would be. I've met so many lovely people, I've grown in olfactory experience, and I have enjoyed the crap out of these five years. I've been thinking a lot, though, about if I'm doing as good as job for you as I should be talking about my perfumed life. And I think, if I'm honest, the answer is no.

I have no intentions of closing up shop. In fact, I'm working to make a commitment to myself to post at least once a week, and I will continue to review perfumes on what I hope is a regular basis. Lord knows I have enough unexplored samples in my backlog that I could keep going for years. But I've also been thinking that I might write a bit more about the ways perfume plays into my day-to-day life. I've been thinking I might focus more on the way I interact with scents and other people instead of sticking strictly to reviews (which, let's face it, I never really stuck to very well). I hope this slight shift in focus will be okay with you dear reader. I, for one, am excited about it.

Thanks, as always, for reading. I appreciate every single one of you. And I hope you'll keep reading.

Until next time.

"It really was about driving--
not fame, not wealth,
not driving away from myself.
It's just myself drove away from me.
Now I gotta get it back and it goes so fast,
so I am traveling again.
Sitting at the all-nite, picking up a pen...
And I'm afraid.
Oh, was there any good reason that I had to go
when all I know is I am all alone again?
And you are the ghost town, and I am the heartland.
And I can say, oh,
that's a very good reason that I had to go,
but now all I know is I can never come back.
And I will never go back."
~ "Traveling Again," Dar Williams

That's some crazy strength.

2013-09-15T06:00:00.000-07:00

Neko Case has a new album out. I love her, so I bought the album the day it was released. The next morning, I was playing it as I got ready for work. All of the sudden, track six, “Nearly Midnight, Honolulu” came on, layers of a cappella singing ringing round the tile and mirrored room.

Hey, little kid that I saw at the bus stop one day.
It was nearly midnight in Honolulu.
We were waiting for the shuttle to take us to the aeroplane
when your mother said, your mother said,
like I couldn't hear her, she said,
"Get the fuck away from me!
Why don't you ever shut up?
Get the fuck away from me!"

I was struck silent and still by these lines. There was something so painful and familiar about those words. I can't remember if those exact words were ever said of me. I'm missing a lot of time. But I know the sentiment was there, often enough, in both my parents, when I was a kid.

Recently, I was talking with someone who seemed not to understand what it means to be haunted, literally, by your own past. To be stalked through your dreams by loved ones trying to kill you, reliving moments that are like something out of a scripted nightmare or a gritty after-school special. Even today, I live with a hyper-vigilance, and it isn't against my triggers anymore as much as it is against myself.

I am constantly afraid of my own body, of the way a song or TV show will cause my breathing to catch or my hands to shake or my body to shudder out of control. In that moment, my own nervous system will betray the cool, calm, collected professional exterior I manage ninety-nine percent of the time and I won't even be able to breath, tears rushing down my face and words I don't want to say aloud tumbling from my mouth. I can't stop it when it happens. I have to just sit there until I calm down. Sometimes it takes a while. And the whole time, I wish for nothing more than for it to stop.

I live with the constant fear that this will happen in public. That it will happen in a movie theater. In a restaurant. At work. I am sitting in a coffee shop in Nashville right now, and as I write this to you, I am crying. I wonder what the lady sitting across the table from me thinks of the tears I can't contain as I write this.

Well, I just want to say that it happened,
'cause one day when you ask yourself,
"Did it really happen?"
You won't believe it, but yes, it did.
And I'm sorry.
And I'm sorry
'cause it happens everyday.

There is a tendency, particularly in people complicit in abuse by their silence, by their ignorance, or by their reluctance to intervene, to deny its reality. Though they are doing what is natural, protecting themselves from the brutality of the world, their denial gives them a role in that abuse. They contribute to its perpetration, its perpetuation, its prevalence in the lives of otherwise bright and hopeful beings, sometimes long after the abuse has ended.

This denial of what has happened has a tendency to eat away at survivors. Our abusers are already skilled at crazy-making, brilliant liars and manipulators whose strength depends on communal silence in the face of horror and our isolation as victims. It takes a lot to admit what has happened to us. Our abusers condition us to keep our mouths shut, to deny it if asked, and society furthers that effect by its tendency to ignore and marginalize. That those around us, even years later, will minimize, deny, or otherwise ignore the truth of our past compounds that pain, makes it difficult for us to name the ghosts in our heads, in our hearts, even after we've long since accepted and acknowledged the truth of them.

They won't believe you
when you tell them.
They won't believe you
when you say, "My mother, she did not love me.
My mother, she did not love me."
No, no, no, no.
No, no, no, no.

If you are ever confronted with a survivor, do us a favor. Don't pretend it didn't happen. It happened. You don't have to like it, or like your role in it, but don't pretend it didn't.

Also, don't pretend you know what we've been through. If I've learned anything from my own abuse, it is that this kind of horror is deeply personal. Even two people – a mother and child, a brother and a sister – experiencing the same abuse, won't experience it the same way. Don't assume that your pain looks or feels like what ours looks like.

Just accept what we tell you. Say it's horrible. Say you're sorry it happened. Say you're proud of who we are now. But don't deny us, or say you know how we feel.

You don't.

And I, for one, am glad you don't. I wouldn't wish my bad days and terrible nights on you. I don't want this kind of suffering for anyone.

Some days you feel like a cartoon
and people will rush to make excuses for you.
You'll hear yourself complain
but don't you ever shut up; please,
Kid, have your say...

I recently dropped something about being an abuse survivor in passing conversation to someone I thought already knew my backstory. We've known each other for the better part of a year now, and I just assumed it had come up already. When I realized I'd just dropped a bomb, I gave him the shorthand run down. “I had no idea,” he said. “I would have never guessed any of that.”

I hear that a lot. When I left the DV unit at the DA's office, I sent out a thank you to everyone in my department. I'd been there for over nine months and I'd never told most of them. When I wrote that they'd helped me heal and that I wanted them to know that there was at least one survivor who saw how committed they were, how hard they worked, how much they tried, and was grateful, some of them were shocked. “We didn't know,” one said, surprised etched across his serious face. “We had no idea.”

Of course not. You'd never know it to meet me. You can know me for months and months, maybe even years, and never know. Not anymore. I'm glad of that. I'm glad that you can't always tell just by looking anymore. But just because you can't see it, that doesn't make it any more or less true.

The friend I told recently speculated in passing that being survivor had shaped my feminism. “Of course,” I said. “How could it not?” Truthfully, though, it shapes everything. I don't always say that it does, but I know in my heart of hearts, the experience is indelibly imprinted on who I am and how I see the world as much as those unseen bruises used to be.

I've occasionally run into people who are curious as to why I would ever tell anyone, especially when I can hide it if I choose. They ask: “Aren't you passed it?” and “Don't you want to be passed it?” and “Aren't you worried that continuing to talk about it continues to allow it to victimize you?”

No.

God, yes.

Absolutely not.

The truth is, I can be healthy. I can be happy. I can be a functional, contributing member of society. I can be, by any measure of the word, a success in life. But I will also always be a survivor. I will never stop being a survivor. And there are a lot of us out there. I have lost count of the amount of my smart, successful, educated friends, most of them women, who are all those things despite being abused and assaulted by someone they believed was safe and trustworthy, someone who was supposed to care for them. I can tell you that when I tote up their numbers, the survivors outweigh those that aren't, and that's just the ones I know about.

The truth is, we are all around you, every day, and you may never know it. And as an adult with a happy life and a healthy relationship, I write these pieces because I know how scared I used to be of my own voice. I know how many people ignored all my not-very-subtle cries for help. I know, from working with survivors first-hand, how many of them feel like I used to: feel crazy, feel ignored, feel like no one will listen, and even if they do, that they still won't believe.

I am an educated, upwardly mobile, full-abled, cis-gendered, relatively young, relatively attractive white woman in the first world. I live in a privilege position now, socially speaking, and talking about my experiences is one of the ways I take what happened to me and I make something good out of it. I speak for those who right now cannot speak for themselves. I speak for those who are still too afraid to. I speak so that we are not invisible, and in the hopes that someone else will hear me and know they are not alone. That they know they will be believed if they talk to me. That I am here, and I can help. That they can get through it and get past it and make something fine from their lives.

Every time I do this, I don't feel revictimized. I feel empowered. I feel my own strength. And those ghostly shadows in my life grow a little smaller compared to the truth of what was then and what is now. And by talking about it, I also acknowledge the ways in which I am still a work in progress, and the areas I still have to work on. It keeps me humble. It reminds me that there are still miles to go. And, I've found, far more people believe me than I ever would have imagined. Far more people love me despite my flaws and my fears and my demons than the abused little kid I once was ever would have believed. In acknowledging the truth, I find acceptance. I find a kind of peace.

'Cause I still love you
Even if I don't see you again.

“That's some crazy strength,” my friend concluded when I had finished telling him my story.

“Yep,” I replied, because that's the truth.

That's some crazy strength.

Every survivor I know has it, whether we feel it every day or not. I have it. You have it. And we are successful despite everything that has happened. That is our true secret superpower. We are not defeated, and every day that we get up and keep going, we are demonstrating a kind of super-human strength.

So if you're reading this, and you feel alone, or broken, or lost, know this: It really happened. It may still be happening. But you are a superhero. Every day that you go on breathing in spite of it, you are a success. You can get out. And, in spite of it, you will be okay. Even when you're not. You will still be okay.

Because I believe in you.

And I did it.

And you can, too.

And I love you
even if I don't see you again.

Top Five Favorite TV Shows Returning for Fall 2013

2013-09-14T06:00:00.000-07:00

Having posted my top picks for best and worst of the new 2013 Fall line-up, I return, dear reader, for one more TV-related post. For those die hard fans of this blog that are always blowing up my Facebook and twitter with book, TV, and movie recommendation requests (you know who you are), here are the five shows I'm most psyched to see returning to the Fall schedule:

1. Nashville - Great original music written by such musical talents as Elvis Costello and The Civil Wars, good lead casting in Connie Britton (Rayna James) and Hayden Panettiere (Juliette Barnes), this is a prime time soap in the classic sense with a country twist. If you like shows like Parenthood, Brothers and Sisters, or Private Practice for their interpersonal drama and angst, then this is a show for you. Forget the Dallas reboot; Nashville has all the country you need. The entire first season is still available on HuluPlus. Season two begins September 25 on NBC.

2. The Originals - I refuse to list this under new shows because the backdoor pilot ran during last year's The Vampire Diaries season and it carries with it, for better or worse, all of its TVD lineage. The good news is that the spin-off is being helmed by Julie Plec, one of the more talented writers from TVD's creative team, and someone who is very invested in getting this right. They will rerun the pilot soon, but if you really want to prepare for The Originals, you need to start watching a lot of TVD pronto. The show is set-up so you can jump in without the backstory, but I have a feeling you're going to get a lot more out of the show if you have a little Mystic Falls history under your belt. Plus, the show is being set in and shot on location in New Orleans, so if you're missing the Big Easy, take heart. The vampires, witches, and things that go bump in the night are bringing NOLA to prime time. the first three seasons of TVD are on Netflix, and six episodes from season four are still up on HuluPlus. The pilot airs again on October 8 but you can catch the director's cut now on Hulu.

3. The New Girl - I will admit to originally writing this show off after two episodes as a bunch of hipster nonsense gifted to Zooey Deschanel because she's practically the poster girl for the ironically sincere youth of today, but I was wrong. I sat down and watched the first season last summer and the show was so weird and awkwardly funny it even sucked David in. Now we are both devoted fans of Jess, Schmidt, Nick, and Winston, and we can't wait to see what happens next. (Also, we really want to figure out more of the rules to True American). If you know David and I, you know we have fairly opposite tastes in TV, so if something manages to amuse both of us? That's probably something worth watching. Season one is available now on Netflix, and the last five episodes of season two are currently on HuluPlus. Season three begins September 17 on Fox.

4. Grimm - Yep. I'm addicted. Where Once Upon A Time lost me because the plot seemed stuck in the mud and the melodrama weighed down any sense of humor the show might have had, Grimm manages to remain fun, interesting, and full of dark humor. If you haven't been watching this lovely little show set in and shot on location here in Portland, you really are missing out. Start at the beginning, but give it two or three episodes to really find its feet. Once it does, the show is off and running with an originality half of the fall's new supernatural/sci-fi pilots wish they had. All of season two is available on HuluPlus. Season three begins October 25 on NBC.

5. Hart of Dixie - I cannot get enough of this Doc Hollywood remake starring Rachel Bilson as a Dr. Zoe Hart, big city surgical resident turned small town family practitioner. The cast is great and the writing is pretty funny, but what really works on this show, surprisingly, is the character development. I appreciate a show that can make the villain a sympathetic character, and can turn people at pods into believable friends. For people who enjoy films like Steel Magnolias, Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, or Sweet Home Alabama, this show was tailor-made for you. And for those of you who share my affection for small town settings and interpersonal hijinx of The Music Man and Our Town variety, Hart of Dixie has a little something for you, too. I'll also add that anyone who misses the weird holidays and festivals of Gilmore Girls' Starshollow will find similar shenanigans afoot here in Bluebell, Alabama. Season one is available now on Netflix, and the last six episodes of season two are currently on HuluPlus. Season three begins on October 7 on The CW.

Runners-up: The Vampire Diaries; Haven; Community (mid-season return); The Mindy Project; Arrow.

So there you have it, folks. The best and the worst of the new shows and my personal favorite returning series. What about you? What are you most looking forward, old or new, to on the 2013 Fall TV line-up?

New TV is coming! New TV is coming!

2013-09-12T11:18:00.000-07:00

On my flight to Nashville, I was treated to a preview of one of Fox's new fall shows, Sleepy Hollow. This reminded me that the new television season is upon us, and I have no made a single recommendation, prediction, or condemnation. This is a failing on my part, dear reader, for as we all know, I follow television development like other people follow sports.

Having already seen one of the fall's newest creative offerings, allow me, then to pontificate a bit on the state of new incoming entertainment options. Without further ado, here are my top five picks for the 2014 fall schedule:

1. Sleepy Hollow

Complicated premise is complicated. Read the wiki synopsis here. Based on the description alone, I would have never even green lit this to pilot. Amazingly, though, despite my deep misgivings, this may turn out to be one of the more interesting concepts on the fall schedule. The casting is terrific, particularly Tom Mison (Ichobad Crane) and Nicole Beharie (Lt. Abbie Mills), the two leads. FN1. As a person who is far more interested in writing and world building than the sexiness of celebrities, I am pleased to see how credible the acting is.

What makes the show enjoyable is that it manages to balance a legitimately creepy degree of horror with the humor of a man out of time.It's funnier and less dramatically hysterical than Haven (which I admittedly like) and less revolting from a human perspective than American Gothic or Hannibal. In the end, the pilot works because the writing works. Part of what saves this show it that it manages to treat the human relationships with sensitivity, handles responses to supernatural threats with the right blend of disbelief, fear, and acceptance (buy the premise, buy the bit), and yet also manages to make fun of itself and its situation. It's closest counterpart on TV right now might actually be The CW's Arrow. If the writing manages to stay as strong throughout the rest of the series as the pilot, we're in for some entertaining small-town New York shenanigans, ya'll.

Sleepy Hollow premiers Monday, September 16 on FOX. Recommended for fans of: Practical Magic; Witches of Eastwick (the film, not the poorly written show); the canceled-before-its-time series Happytown; the film adaptation of Constantine; Puddletown local favorite, Grimm.

2. Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Agent Phil Coulson puts together a small team of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents to handle strange new cases. Each case will test the team in cooperation and ingenuity as they try to work together figuring out newly emerging superhuman individuals in the world.

Yeah, yeah. Everyone and their mother is excited for this one. But, in their (and my) defense:

Joss Whedon writes really good everything, including tv;
SUPERHEROES! Well, peripherally;
It helps fills the aching wound left by the cancellation of Alphas;
There is something really interesting about the lives of fragile humans who run toward, rather than away from, danger. These people are NOT gods and monsters. They're just like you and me (well, sort of). If you ever wonder what it would be like to be someone of extraordinary courage and ordinary talent in a world where superheroes are real, this is going to be one great show.
And seriously -- would you trust anyone else to do that good a job with these themes other than the man who wrote Buffy? NO. You would not. FN2.

Premieres Tuesday, September 24 on ABC. Recommended for people who: love anything Joss Whedon has ever written; love the Avengers universe; thought Noah Bennet was the real hero on Heroes; roots for the poor red shirts on Star Trek; remember that one time when Xander saved the world with his mouth.

3. The Michael J. Fox Show

Alex P. Keaton is back on prime time! This time playing a version of his real life self:

After being diagnosed with Parkinson's disease, Mike Henry had to give up his career as a news anchor and focus on his health and his family. Five years later, Mike decides to get back to work and struggles between family and career.

Is it emotionally manipulative? Yes, to some degree it is. Am I going to watch it? YES. Why? Because it's the most real thing I am going to see on television next fall, and that includes any 'reality tv' anyone produces. We've come a long way when a network will give a show to someone with a debilitating illness, not just someone PLAYING a person with an illness. Also, while the trailer makes it clear that the show will be full of feels for MJ regarding his condition, there will also be a lot of the humor derived from it. And there is something poetically human about that, about the way all of us find humor in our own suffering to make it through the day.

Premieres Thursday, September 26 on NBC. Recommended for: children of the 80s; people who enjoy family-style sitcoms; people who want to understand why every time the Glee producers have Artie go into a 'dream sequence' and magically be able to walk, I want to stab something.

4. The Tomorrow People

For those of you thinking, "Yeah, Joss Whedon, humanity is great and all but I want people with actual powers, not scrappy humans with moxie" then the CW is here for you. Premise? "Based on the original British television series of the same name, the series follows a group of young people who possess powers as the result of human evolution."

The Tomorrow People is the latest iteration of this trope, with a decidedly more YA/NA bent. This places the concept right in my wheelhouse, and the trailer seemed to have more going for it than Star-Crossed or The Hundred during Upfront season. Perhaps that is why it is the only one of the three with a fall time slot.

The Tomorrow People premieres October 9 on The CW. FN3. Recommended for people who love: Heroes; Alphas; Jumper; Push; the X-Men universe.

5. Mind Games

Okay, this is admittedly a little bit of a cheat on my part. Mind Games is not on anyone's calendar anywhere yet. It may never see the light of day. And yet, of all the upfront videos I watched, this was actually my favorite new show. I'm including the trailer here, so you can check it out:

Premieres midseason on ABC. I am hoping the fact that over 41,000 people have already liked the trailer on Youtube means Mind Games will eventually show up on ABC's mid-season fill roster. Casting was still active as of last month, so… *crosses fingers* For those of us already missing our regular "shady group of people manipulates situations for the greater good" shows, this one might fill the bill.

Recommended for fans of: Leverage; Lie to Me; The Mentalist; Franklin & Bash.

That's it for me on the new shows front. Anything you are looking forward to that I didn't mention? I'm happy to discuss in the comments below. Also, tune in tomorrow for my thoughts on the five WORST shows to hit the 2013 Fall line-up, which will appear over on my writing blog.

----------------
FN1. Did anyone else notice this is the same protagonist name as Harper's Island? I hope it's a subtle shout-out. If so, well-done.
FN2. Though I STILL have not forgiven you for Buffy Season 9, Joss Whedon. Do you hear me? I AM NOT OVER IT. That was some Dallas-level plot betrayal, and those wounds cut deep.
FN3. CW is premiering everything late this year, I suspect in a bid to catch people watching new shows that fizzle after 1-3 episodes. I hope it works out for them.

Go on, go on and talk...

2013-09-11T21:40:00.001-07:00

First, dear reader, let me say that this author has been touched beyond belief with the calls, emails, Facebook messages, tweets, and, in one case, an actual visit to my house in response to my last post.

I love you, dear reader, and it is startling to know that you, within the confines of the various forms and functions love allows, love me, too. You make every day worthwhile.

Okay, having been accused of "blerghing" rather than blogging last week, let's move past the mushy stuff, shall we? FN1.

It's getting cooler in Portland, which means we are approaching my favorite time of year: Fall. I love everything about fall. The holidays. The cool weather. The fall leaves that paper the streets, slick with rain. The moody cloud cover. The foods. The smell of fireplaces and wet pines and musty wool. School spirit and new beginnings and Friday night football games. FN2. FN3.

Last week I woke up and the rain and wind were knocking yellow leaves from the trees along my drive in to the office, when only the day before those leaves had been green. Fall isn't here precisely, but it will be soon.

The winter ships come and go
despite the Columbia fog...

What does Fall mean to you, dear reader? For me, it means a change in scent wardrobe, thought that likely won't occur until I come back from Nashville next week. FN4. FN5. But I've been thinking about it a lot. What will inevitably rotate to the back of the scent collection and what will come to the fore. Since I'm skipping my annual September trip to the Olympic Peninsula in lieu of Nashville and won't likely get up there now until it is full on winter, you will all have to cope with tales of broody Portland fall this year. FN6.

Since it was cool and wet yesterday morning, I dug out my bottle of Bvlgari Black. If you've never tried Bvlgari Black, you really should. It's beautiful, edgy yet feminine, and you can always find it at a reasonable price.

To get to Bvlgari Black, I had to reach past Tauer Perfumes L'Air du desert marocain, a long standing favorite, and Pentachord Auburn, which I bought after wearing it out of The Perfume House and then thinking about it for the next two months. Both of these are nice for fall.

Last week, I whipped out Lorenzo Villoresi Alamut, which is indelibly sweater linked in my head. I also recently found a place for my Jo Malone Blackberry & Bay on my Lazy Susan which holds my seasonal choices. (I rotate things in and our of drawers on the Lazy Susan, which I can spin at leisure in the morning.)

What else smells like fall to me? As someone who associates fall with it beginning to rain again, I can't ever smell those wet leaves without thinking of CB I Hate Perfume Black March, which I love layering with the easy, soapy, beauty of Jo Malone Red Roses.

Another happy Fall scent for me is slumberhouse Rume, which I once referred to as "the fall evening aromas of humidifier mist." It is a spicy, wintry, vaguely medicinal fruitcake liqueur of a scent, and every time it gets cooler, I reach into the cabinet for a healthy spray of it.

For something more toward the foodie end of things, may I recommend Annick Goutal Vanille Exquise for fall? This vanilla plays toward the burnt sugar and salted caramel end of things for me. When I saw the salted caramel mochas were back on the seasonal menu at Starbucks, I knew it was the right time to dig this one of the the drawer. Vanille Exquise always reminds me of pie walks and homemade carnival treats at elementary school carnivals. I think I only got to go to one at my own school when I was very little, but it remains one of my favorite childhood memories. If anyone has a recipe for really good popcorn balls, I'll take it.

For my final Fall-scented thought for this moment of transition, when every breath carries with it the death of the old in favor of a long coming new beginning, I'll add one of those scents that, if money were no object, I'd buy a giant bottle of so that I would never run out: By Kilian Back to Black. Tobacco and sugar are at their best here, intermingled together with a laudanum undertone that makes it a perennial hit in my book.

So there you have it, dear reader. Ten forward thinking Fall scents for the coming season. I know these are all scents I've reviewed before, and I promise, new reviews are on the horizon. But I realized this week that I haven't really sat down and spent quality time with my current collection in a long while…too long, really. I need to take some time to reflect on what I have and what I want and what I am missing. I suspect this will also result in a round of "What I can give away," so be prepared for that to come, too, dear reader.

The time has come to reassess and clean a little house. So mixes and scent packages will be forthcoming, as well as some long overdue gifts I owe.

Until next time, when I hope to write you from the land of barbecue, boots, and bourbon, I'll be thinking of you.

Pier 39, Astoria, Oregon.

You know this isn’t right,
can’t we just have a fair fight?
So you need to hide to get through the day.
Stop being nice.
Say it to my face:
am I Jezebel or am I Gargamel today?
You know it makes me laugh out loud.
You can’t hurt me now.
Go on, go on and talk
You can say whatever you want
Call me a homewrecker; call me a monster.
Give me what you’ve got!
~ "Give Me What You've Got," The Shondes

______
FN1. I'm looking at you, knife boy.
FN2. Okay, technically Lewis & Clark plays on Saturday afternoons, which is weird, but whatever. I'm from Texas, and in my head, it's all about the Friday Night Lights.
FN3. And here's why:

There is no quit in those boys. NO QUIT. And as my beloved brother was once a teenage Texas football player, a lingering intense pride remains.
FN4. Oh? Did I fail to mention I am currently in Nashville for a week to hang with my very own The Kate? Yep.
FN5. I am buying my first pair of cowgirl boots in over a decade while I am there. I am very excited. There will a fancy new shoes post to come soon for those of you into that sort of thing.
Wait.
That came out wrong.
FN6. Though I also have a trip to Chicago in October and a trip to Seattle in November, so there will be multi-state perfume plotting.

You can't deny me my kingdom.

2013-08-28T22:19:00.002-07:00

Elizabethtown is one of my favorite movies. Despite being critically panned and a box office flop, I still think it is a beautiful, thoughtful, highly underrated film. Some of my life philosophy has come directly from that movie, to wit:

Claire: “Trust me. Everybody is less mysterious than they think they are.”

Hollie: “It takes time to be funny. It takes time to extract joy from life.”

Claire: “Do you ever just think, 'I'm fooling everybody'?”
Drew: “You have no idea.”

Claire: “So you failed.[...] You wanna be really great? Then have the courage to fail big and stick around. Make them wonder why you're still smiling.”

One of the things that gets discussed in Elizabethtown is the idea of unlucky clothes. Claire has unlucky clothes, a particular little black dress. “Good things have not happened to me in this dress,” she tells Drew.

I don't have unlucky clothes, or unlucky perfume, per se, but I do have a perfume that I associate with endings. For my law school graduation, I saved up and purchased the most expensive bottle of perfume I own as a graduation present for myself. It was a bottle of limited edition L'Artisan Iris Pallida 2007. When I originally reviewed it, I said the scent gave me a visceral response like the feeling of a sob, caught at the back of my throat. It was so sad and beautiful that it literally brought me to tears. It still does.

For most people, I suspect the idea of paying three hundred dollars for a bottle of sadness seems absurd. Why not by a happy, upbeat scent? Why spend so much money for the scent that captures the inexpressible sound that rings out inside when someone breaks your heart?

As I am frequently reminded, however, I am not most people.

One of the ways I am not most people is that I don't have what one would consider a traditional family structure. My family of origin is very small now and consists almost exclusively of my brother and his sons, who live very far away. David and I don't have a family of creation beyond the two of us and our moody pride of cats. For a girl who grew up in and misses having a big southern family, this might have resulted in a very lonely, socially limited, and withdrawn life.

But I got lucky because I had a wonderful therapist in my mid-twenties who taught me that family can be more than just the people whom you share blood with or the partner you marry. Family of origin and family of creation matter, to be sure, but there's also a family of choice. These are the people that we choose to build a life with even when it isn't warranted by genetic material or legal obligation. They are the people we choose to love and to build our lives around. Some people call them best friends; some people will know them as that “aunt” or “uncle” who isn't really related.

To me, they're my family. We spend Thanksgivings and Christmases and Fourth of Julys together. When we vacation, it is often to see one another. We call each other first with news, good and bad. We help each other move. We loan each other money. We hold each other when we cry. We are each other's emergency contacts. We say things like, “I miss you,” and “I love you,” and “I wish you were here.”

By any real standards, we are a family.

I am very lucky to have what I consider a decently large family of choice. Most of us met in college and know each other. Occasionally, we embrace an outsider; occasionally, someone marries in. But this is how it works: those we love are welcomed by the rest of us, usually under my roof or through my arraignment because I tend to play matriarch to our little wayward group. Every single person in this family knows that they can show up here and have a home, no questions asked. If home is the place where they always have to take you, then this house is a home to far more than the four people who currently reside here.

As we get older, and our collective ties get deeper, it gets harder to join, I think. Not intentionally, of course. We will happily bring in the enthusiastic newcomer and embrace them. But I find fewer people, as I go along, who just get it. In my experience, there are always plenty of people who seem flattered by the attention and seem to want to accept a place in this motley crew of mine, but often they don't really understand what it means. Being part of this means making a strange kind of commitment, if not to the group, then at least to either David or to me. This willingness to make you a member of our tribe is something we have always shared, and one of the things that makes us a strong couple. As I said when we got married, “His people will be my people.” I am fortunate that I married someone who shares the reciprocal sentiment.

Though I do not have children, and may never do so, I have a sense that my life will, nonetheless, be filled with children as I grow older. Much as I am everyone's big sister, counselor, confessor, cheerleader, and best friend, I hope to also be a strange, effusive, generous aunt to these babies-to-be. And when I think about how full my life is of people who love, support, believe in, and respect me, I feel, on the whole, deeply fortunate.

So what does this have to do with Iris Pallida, or perfume, or Elizabethtown?

On Monday, when I rose from my bed, I got dressed. Then I stood in front of my perfume cabinet, trying to decide what to wear, and found myself reaching for Iris Pallida. For me, Iris Pallida is the scent of deep, exquisite pain, the haunting melancholy of loss, and the smell of endings.

You see, I knew it was going to be a bad day. I knew that someone I'd thought was going to be a long term, close friend of the sort that eventually becomes a person I consider family was going to walk away. Through little to no fault of my own, that relationship was necessarily going to end, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Was I angry? Yes. Hurt? Sure, that, too. Self-righteous? Maybe a tiny bit. But mostly, I have just spent this whole week feeling terribly, terribly sad. I grieve because I have this nasty habit of letting people dig deep into me, and even though we may not speak for months or years, I go right on loving them. I go on thinking of them, wishing the best for them and for their lives. I wish that for these people whether or not we ever speak again, because when you care for someone, you want them to be happy.

I've been told on occasion that this willingness to love too much, to expect too much, to give too much, to want too much, is a failing. It makes me difficult. It takes up space; it can suffocate. It's something I need to work to correct, so I can fit more within the socially accepted, distantly polite norms that rule most people's lives.

I choose to ignore this socially 'appropriate' course correction. I know that this makes me a somewhat polarizing person. I'm not easy to get along with. I have high expectations, most of all for myself. I am honest, sometimes to a fault. I am free with myself and the details of my life in ways that can seem overwhelming. People tend to either really like me or be really put off by me. For better or for worst, I don't find a lot of people who express their opinions of me in lukewarm terms.

I'm sure I could do as bidden. I could live a smaller life. I could be shrink back instead of looming. But I worry that the thing that drives me to feel joy is the same thing that breeds my occasional sorrow, and living life in a box so that other people are more comfortable would crush the spark in me that can create whole worlds from the fabric of my own imagination. It is the same part that finds the exquisite beauty in a well-made perfume, or that cries over a well-crafted, heart stirring essay like those in Alyssa Harrad's Coming to My Senses because I see in this would-be stranger a part of myself, and led to a wonderful phone call that I hope is a sign of future friendship to come.

When I tried to name it recently, I came up short.

“Passion,” someone supplied.

“Yes,” I immediately answered.

I could suppress this impulse that drives me, but I don't think I'd like my life much without it. And, to quote another Cameron Crowe movie, Vanilla Sky, “You can do whatever you want with your life, but one day you'll know what love truly is. It's the sour and the sweet. And I know sour, which allows me to appreciate the sweet.” So when I looked upon the vacant waste that was once a fruitful beginning, I did what I do: I leaned into it. I wore my expensive, painful perfume. I cut my hair, watching little pieces of me fall and be swept away. I drank, and I cried, and I laughed.

And then I let go.

But there will never be a day that I won't occasionally be stopped by the joke unshared, the laughter unheard, the love unfelt, that beats on beneath my breast despite its absence.

And this will always be a home to those who once chose to seek it.

"What's this?
Camaraderie of country that turns,
before me, salty
rust on fragile parts.
All this--
All you have inspired,
the crew and ship of empire,
rig and mast and spars,
box of stripes and stars...

I am aching.*
You can't deny me my kingdom.

You.
Sailor on the lonely sea,
will you turn and promise me
you'll always be alive?"

~ "You, Sailor," Erin McKeown

________
* I originally misheard this lyrics as "I am aching." It may actually be, "I am a king." I like my way better.

Please forgive me for my distance.

2013-08-24T13:31:00.001-07:00

Review of Providence Perfume Co. Branch & Vine and Providence Perfume Co. + Jonathan Joseph Peters Mousseline Pêche

Dear reader:

I have been living in a terrible desert of words. I want to write to you. I want to tell you stories. Places I've been, things I've done, people I miss and people I am only just beginning to know. More stories and adventures, those of this world and those of the worlds in my head. All those voices clamoring...

But something has happened lately. I put pen to paper, I put fingers to keyboard, and then nothing. Nothing comes. I can't write. I can barely talk. I feel suddenly, strangely lost. I can't find anything to say to you, to say about the lovely perfume I'm smelling, to round out the worlds that live in my head.

I don't know why, dear reader. I don't know what illness has afflicted me and stolen all my words. But I am going to try, nonetheless. Forgive me if these meager ramblings seem weak or ill at ease on this page, in your screen, from my mouth. Right now, they are the best I can do.

Providence Perfume Co. Branch & Vine is described by the perfumer as follows:

Inspired by a summer garden. Verdant leafy greens, a tangle of tomato vine. Hints of muguet mingle with mimosa, jasmine and cooling violet leaf.

Top Notes: sunflower, green bitter orange
Heart Notes: mimosa, muguet leaf accord, neroli, jasmine sambac
Base Notes: vetiver, fir, violet leaf

The orange is bitter, like the oil from the skin of a not quite ripe orange, and it is blended beautifully with vetiver and violet leaf. Quickly – within minutes – it becomes dry, all sunflower seed taste and the least sweet neroli scent you can imagine. This is a lovely opening. It is light, it is complex, and it smells like you'd want to have a summer romance remember it by this smell somewhere ages and ages hence.

The middle is far more floral than the opening, on me skewing toward a delicate jasmine with hints of violet leaf and muguet leaf. A bad jasmine can sometimes skew toward grape kool-aid or grape bubblegum; Branch & Vine avoids this by having hints of greenery and an almost lemony citrus, making it a truly lovely summer floral. I really liked it. I wore it in high summer heat and felt like it was gentle on the skin but still lightly assertive in a way that only a floral can be, and that the heat brought the sillage a little higher.

This scent is billed as a unisex scent and I believe it would be lovely on a woman, and possibly even more lovely and interesting on a man. Perhaps I will cajole my mister into trying a little, just to see.

A sample sprayer is $6.00 direct from the perfumer. A full ounce is $80.00. Given the lovely experience that is Branch & Vine, I think that's a reasonable price.

Providence Perfume Co. + Jonathan Joseph Peters Mousseline Pêche

Mousseline Pêche is an entirely different experience. Providence Perfume Co. describes it as follows:

A new limited edition eau de toilette born of the collaboration between fashion designer Jonathan Joseph Peters, of Project Runway and our Providence Perfume Co. perfumer Charna Ethier. A fragrance inspired by the softest, sheerest peach mousseline de soie, the fabric of choice for the designer's summer resort collection.

The sweet smell of peach skin warming in the sun,
A feather light frock of the palest silk mousseline,
Bronzed skin kissed with lush ylang ylang, rose and tonka.

Top Notes: yuzu, pink grapefruit, rosewood
Middle Notes: peach accord, ylang ylang, rose otto
Base Notes: tonka, vetiver, spun sugar (natural maltol)

Wow. Peach and pink grapefruit mingle with rosewood and a strong tonka base note to create a sweet explosion of delicious, feminine fruits mixed with a clean oil basenote that reminds of me baby oil on warm skin in the opening. About twenty minutes in it I get am almost cinnamon note that sugars up the fruit a bit, but not overwhelmingly so. It almost reminds of Chanel No. 5 EdT, but only in the most distant cousin sense.

I've worn Mousseline Pêche on both hot days and cool rainy days and find it pleasing for almost any weather. I get low to medium sillage off my spray sample, even when applied generously. My only complaint is that the longevity is on the short side for me, pettering out at around the four hour mark.

A good peach can be so hard to do; they often come off reek of chemicals like a cleaner or plastic-y like a scented doll. Mousseline Pêche is exactly what a sexy sparkling summer peach should be. It should make you want to bite into flesh until the juices run from your lips. If that sounds as good to you as it does to me, then give this one a try.

A sample sprayer of Mousseline Pêche is $7.00 direct from the perfumer. A 15ml sprayer is $50.00.

There you have it reader. I'm alive, if somewhat buried under. Hang in there with me. I promise, I miss you even more than you can possibly be missing me.

"My derring-do allows me to dance the rigadoon
Around you
But by the time I'm close to you, I lose
My desideratum and now you, so
Now you have it, so tell me baby, what's the word?
Am I your gal, or should I get out of town?
I just need to be reassured
Do you just deal it out,
or can you deal with
What I lay down?
Please forgive me, for my distance
The pain is evident in my existence
Please forgive me for my distance
The shame is manifest in my resistance
To your love, to your love, to your love
~ "To Your Love," Fiona Apple

Samples provided by perfumer.
Photo of Branch & Vine bottle taken from Providence Perfume Co. All rights reserved.