Smell Series: New Barbie Doll

After analyzing all of the possible reasons why this blog has gone into a coma, I'm going with the obvious: It's the perfume-buying moratorium. The one where I forbid myself to buy any perfume until August. That one. Apparently my brain refuses to blog about perfume when it knows that it can't buy any.

OK, fine, be that way, brain. See if I care. But can I have a blog about smells? Non perfume smells? I'm declaring a series. And I'm starting with one of my favorite smells, the scent of New Barbie Doll.

It seems faintly odd to write about dolls, especially a fashion maven like Barbie, because I was never a fashion-focused girly girl. Once I got past toddlerhood, big enough to be opinionated and no longer a passive doll to dress up, Mom lost interest in those things for me. So the whole feminine-frippery-sharing thing didn't really happen.

Mom and I did interact on the girly front, but "front" might be the right word. She insisted on getting my hair combable-tangle-free and with an unflattering razor-straight center part every day; I stole a piece of the red silk scarf that her mother had given her a piece of. There wasn't exactly a meeting of the minds. We came much closer to bonding over food. Or her mother; why do you think I stole the scarf? But those are different smells. (I still haven't found her mother's perfume.)

Come to think of it, this leads me to another possible reason why I'm not writing: Because I need to write about Mom, and I'm not ready to do so, except in little bits and fits and starts and passive-aggressive side remarks in my posts on other subjects. I need to reconcile my gratitude that she taught me to love things like marzipan and daffodils with my resentment that there wasn't more that we shared, that she wasn't (and isn't) sufficiently interested in me for there to be more. I need to reconcile the person that I told myself that she was, with the person that she really was and is. I need to accept that while I adored her parents, her childhood wasn't exactly ideal either. I need to figure out why I think of her in the past tense, when she's still just a phone call and a thousand or so miles away.

I need to decide whether I'm relieved or angry that I can safely write about her here, because she's not going to bother to read my blog. To steal the phrase, she's just not that into me.

One of the things that Mom did do, was Christmas. I don't know how our holidays compared to those for other kids, but I do know that when we were small my brother and I were presented with a Christmas that fulfilled our--or at least my; I shouldn't speak when I don't know his mind--shiny get-up-in-the-wee-hours-with-a-pounding-heart hopes. And I'm pretty sure that Mom was a big part of that.

I do find myself pausing and wondering: When both parents were shambling around sleepily at one o'clock Christmas morning, was Mom the one primarily producing the shiny? Am I mistaken, and was it mainly Dad? I always took it as an article of faith that Mom cared about our Christmas, that it was one of the times when she looked outside herself to do something for other people, and I think it's true. If it's not true, well, maybe Dad, now that he's gone, won't mind giving Mom the credit if it's what she needs to get and what I need to give her.

So. Christmas. The Christmas tree, and special snacks that were exotic to my childhood self, and dinner, and comfy family rituals, and of course gifts. Our Christmas gifts were mostly about new toys--clothes and educational toys were not invited. Toys weren't bought casually throughout the year; they had to wait for holidays or birthdays, making them all the more special. Christmas meant toys that I wanted, that I discovered from hours and hours with the Sears Wish Book. Not what Mom thought I should want, but what I actually wanted. On that subject, Mom was interested enough to hear me.

New toys had those smells, those modern, manufactured, no doubt horribly unhealthy smells, and I loved those smells. The dusty smell of bright-colored cardboard boxes, the barely-there and indescribable smell of clear plastic enclosures, the fabric-treatment smell of new doll clothes, and most importantly, the wonderful rubbery-plastic smell of a new Barbie doll.

I still love those dolls. Even as an adult, when I'm near the toy department of a big store I'll sometimes go to look at the doll displays, savoring the idea that I could buy whatever I please, though I never do. And I love the smell wherever I find it, even in an eraser or the rubberized handle of a new garden trowel. New Barbie Doll Note, I'm realizing, perhaps meant not just new childhood wealth, but times when Mom demonstrated that she cared and that she knew who I was.

Now, Barbie herself was not my favorite character in the BarbieVerse. I preferred Skipper, especially back when she was ungiggly and flat-chested and straight-haired and intelligent-looking and lacking in scarey eye makeup. It was Skipper that had the ever-growing handmade-by-me wardrobe (including at least one garment made from that stolen red silk scarf), selections of which were carried in stuff sacks before I knew what a stuff sack was, as she travelled on endless adventures with her dog, Fateful. Yes, I'm sure that I got the name from some TV dog named Faithful. Which meaning did I think I was getting? I wish I knew.

And then there was Dawn, a short, twenties-flapper-figured clone of Barbie, with another intelligent face, though she was laughing and not sober like Skipper. And the Sunshine Family, a cheerful trio that I wished I could meet in real life and, interestingly, the only ones that I cared to keep into adulthood. But they all smelled like New Barbie Doll when they first arrived.

So... this post was going to be about shiny toys, and seems to have instead led me in a cranky direction. But it did lead; I didn't have to get out and push.

Image: By Joe Mabel. Wikimedia Commons.

Blogging: Randomness and Cheese

So the lack of perfuming continues. And so does the lack of blogging. But I'm doing other things, so why not write about them?

For example, we learned to make risotto. Now that I have learned it, that sounds like an embarrassingly minor achievement, because it was easy. Really easy. Grate some cheese, chop and fry an onion, warm up some broth, measure some rice, stir until your arm gets tired, eat. We started with a very mildly-flavored and elegant white risotto recipe from Marcella Hazen, but we reconfirmed that "elegant" is not our food taste. I ended up doctoring it up with double butter, double Parmesan, and double salt, and then I was content. And fatter.

Next? Panko Crusted Cheesy Risotto Balls. Make risotto, stir in an insane amount of cheese, stash it in the fridge. Next day, mold it into balls, crust it with flour and egg and panko crumbs, and deep fry. Now that's risotto! Though if deep frying seems a little too wrong, the fresh hot cheesy risotto is mighty good, too. I had to stop myself from eating it all before sending it to the fridge. Next time I'm going to put in some Rogue Creamery Chipotle Cheddar for a little more kick.

We served said cheesy risotto balls at a Memorial Day party for twenty-six people. Some of whom stayed to watch Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House. I continue to boggle at the fact that we entertain.

And then there's the gardening. I've been raising seedlings, unusual for me. And thinking about attempting plant breeding experiments, though I'm choosing plant edibles that are already fairly rarely eaten--radish seed pods, sunflower buds, and (not as unusual) squash blossoms. That way, I can spend my first breeding year just eating what already exists.  And as long as I'm looking at growing oddities, I'm considering things like parch corn and pop beans, both of them dried seeds that partially "pop". (Anybody remember the parch corn in Caddie Woodlawn? I always wanted to try some.)

And we hung some pictures. This doesn't sound like a big deal, but it's something that my parents didn't do, so it feels like an accomplishment. My den now has the Cock-A-Doodle Mosaic by Gardener Artist on one wall and a silly photograph of a favorite formerly-local actress on another.  Yay.

Image: Wikimedia Commons

Blogging: Blogging

What's the deal? Why aren't I blogging? What? What?

Maybe it's that no-new-perfume-until-August thing.

Maybe I need a nap.

Maybe it's insufficient milk.

Maybe it's too much caffeine.

Maybe my brain was stolen by aliens.

Maybe it's a Communist Plot.

Maybe I sent my brain out for cleaning and forgot to pick it up.

Maybe I never wrote all those posts and they were all a delusion.

Maybe it's not possible to garden and blog in the same week.

Maybe I really am posting but then it's wiped from my memory, like those critters on Doctor Who.

Maybe I'm a squirrel.

Maybe the earth is flat.

Maybe all chicken was replaced by Soylent Green.

Maybe maybe.

Image: Wikimedia Commons.

SOTD: Mulch

OK, this is straying away from the perfume theme. I'm obsessing about gardening lately. I have more garden space, though only temporarily. And an itty bitty greenhouse--that's permanent. So the most exciting smell I'm experiencing lately is the dusty, damp smell of mulch and potting soil as I walk into the greenhouse and shut the door.

I'll be back to perfume soon, no doubt. Meanwhile, I wonder if Christopher Brosius has ever considered creating a Garden Shed perfume?

Image: By QuistNix Wikimedia Commons.

SOTD: Serge Lutens A La Nuit

Death by jasmine.

Yum.

Something about that Godiva shampoo bar that's been fogging up the place has made me eager for an even stronger dose of jasmine. So I wore A La Nuit on Thursday (the Godiva post went up somewhere around Wednesday, and then Blogger fell down, so the dates got weird) and then again today.

Oddly, A La Nuit smells cleaner than the shampoo bar. And I always thought of A La Nuit as a slightly dirty jasmine. Have my jasmine standards changed?

Hmmm.

That is all.

Review Roundup: Is here.

SOTD: Lush Godiva Shampoo Bar

I posted a while ago about the movie Bag It!, which inspired me to try to reduce plastic use, which inspired me to try shampoo bars. The ones from Emz Blendz, a local shop, are very nice, and will remain my usual shampoo. But I first saw shampoo bars on the Lush website, so I thought I'd try one. Moisturizing and jasmine (rather than some cookie scent) sounded nice, so I tried Godiva.

Wow, this thing is scented. I could smell the jasmine while I was cutting the tape on the package. I could smell it on the paper padding. I could smell it through the plas...

Wait. This thing is wrapped in plastic? Did Lush miss a meeting? Yes, a little plastic sock is probably better than a whole plastic shampoo bottle, but still. Emz wraps their shampoo moons in paper. So there.

Returning to my first impression: Wow, this scent is strong. I unwrapped the bar and used it, and left it on my tub drainer, and whenever I open my bathroom door a fog of jasmine creeps out and down the hall and into the living room. I can't even tell if my now-dry hair smells like jasmine because my nose is overwhelmed with the ambient fumes.

Luckily, it's a nice jasmine--neither dirty or squeaky-clean, and without a synthetic vibe. I like it. But I need to get one of those shampoo bar cases to pen it in, because the scent is going to soak into the walls at this rate.

As for its performance as a shampoo... have I mentioned my lack of interest in beauty products, beyond the way that they smell? My hair is clean. I was able to brush it without fighting a lot of tangles. It didn't wave around or stick up or anything. Therefore, by my standards, it succeeded as a shampoo.

Conclusion: I like it. I'll want to buy another one when this one is gone, but what's with the plastic, guys?

One advantage of reviewing a new kind of thing is finding previously unknown-to-me blogs for the Review Roundup: Mayaari and agoosa and Clearly Beautiful and WeekendRamblings and  Carrara Nour and Beautiful Aspect and Alice in Nappyland and not-new-to-me MakeupAlley and this thing seems to have been reviewed a lot, so I'll stop there.

Image: By Philip Capper. Wikimedia Commons.

Rambling: Just write, bleep it!

Early in the life of this blog, I blogged every single day for months. I thought I might make an unbroken post-every-day year. I didn't achieve that, but I had a fairly nice record going.

Then all that just stopped, and I'm not quite sure why. But I've decided that waiting to be inspired is no way to get writing again. So here I am, uninspired, but typing at full speed. And I, um, see, just to increase the odds that I will write something and get it out there I may not include a picture in this post. When I'm driven to blog, I enjoy including the picture, but when I'm shaking a finger at myself and ordering myself to write something, sometimes the picture seems like too much work.

I do seem to have an urge to record my life, even when I'm not writing. I've been more thoroughly putting all my personal tasks and goals into OmniFocus, an elaborate To Do application. I even got the iPhone version, to allow me to enter random thoughts no matter where I am. Well, except when I'm in bed; can someone please fix that problem where a cellphone near a speaker of any kind, including a clock radio, makes the speaker intermittently do that stuttery thing?

And just today, I bought myself a garden journal. It's actually a smallish Moleskine sketchpad notebook; I've been wondering what all the fuss was about with Moleskine notebooks, so I decided to get one. While owning it doesn't make me feel like Hemingway, I must say that it is a nice little thing, and I do like the way that the stitched pages let me open it extra firmly, in a way that would promptly snap a glued spine. I was a little concerned that I would go all perfectionist and refuse to mark up the pretty paper with my extraordinarily wavery and near-unreadable handwriting, but, no, I've already filled ten pages with notes about what's done blooming, what's currently blooming, what's about to bloom, what I want to plant and transplant, and what to buy for next year.

A slightly disconcerting feature of the notebook: The very first page has a few lines labelled "In case of loss, please return to:". That's all very well, and I entered my name and phone number, but it's followed with "As a reward: $" and a space to enter the size of the award promised for return of the notebook. Is this really a good idea? Do I want to encourage someone who picks up my lost notebook to promptly imagine how much they can ransom it for?

Blogging: Why on earth wouldn't I blog for free?

You may or may not have heard about the Huffington Post lawsuit. As I understand it, now that the Post has been sold for a big bag of money, all sorts of bloggers who have been contributing their words to the Post for free are saying, "Hey! Gimme!" Vanessa, aka Bonkers About Perfume, mentioned this some time ago, pointing to this article when she commented on my earlier blog rant post. But I'm a little slow.

The lawsuit seems to have started a web-wide discussion of the concept of blogging, or otherwise creatively contributing, for free. And I've picked a side: As far as I'm concerned, the problem isn't that some people are creating for free, but instead the expectation that amateur creative activity should be paid. At all.

Many people are arguing that the Post situation wasn't Wrong because the people who blogged for the Post did benefit financially, if not directly. They got exposure, they enhanced their reputation, they got hits on their websites, blah blah blah, and all of that led to money one way or another. And Wired had an article about "free" and how free product can result in money in various sideways ways. And an article on another site compared free blogging to open source software, and again mentioned other financial benefits resulting from contributing to open source projects--the facts that some companies are making money from it, and programmers are improving their reputation and careers.

And I say that, again, that's not the point. It's not about getting money directly, or indirectly, or now, or later, or through a paycheck, an ad click or a career enhancement. It is, I say, not about money. At all.

Now, I'm mis-stating the position of those articles a little bit. Some did touch on this idea, the idea that there can be motivations for creation that are unrelated to money. But every one that I've read so far, even the open source article, seems to glance sideways at this idea, nervously, and to rush back to the comforting "Look! Look! Later on there might be money!" argument. So far, only an article by Arianna Huffington herself (who can't really be considered a disinterested party) seems to dwell, at any length, on the purely nonprofit motivations. While also talking about the financial benefits to the writers, she talks about people wanting to "connect, share their passions, and have their opinions heard."

Well, yeah. Was that so hard? It's not about the money.

And, no, I'm not saying that someone who ends up making some money, a tiny bit or a lot, is bad, or less creative, or betraying their muse. I'm just saying that money is not the point. I'm saying that blogging without any hope or intention of making a single penny is a worthwhile pursuit, one that doesn't call for explanations or mumbles of, "...well, I thought it might be good for my career..." Creating without a paycheck does not make you a fool or a sucker. It does not require an excuse.

Image: By LosHawlos. Wikimedia Commons.

SOTD: Hermes Hermessence Brin de Reglisse

There are scents that I love in the real world, but don't much like in perfumes--orange blossom, for example. And there are scents that I don't much like in the real world but love in perfumes. Brin de Reglisse appears to be an example of this second case.

I don't much like lavender--I smell it as dusty and passive-aggressive. But in Brin de Reglisse, the dustiness seems to be lacquered over with a sugary coating, so that I can visualize a sweet, purple, slightly juicy lavender replacement without any toxic personality characteristics. It's partly the licorice, no doubt--I love licorice--but I'm not sure where the sweetness is coming from.

Review Roundup: Is here.

Image: Gisela Francisco. Wikimedia Commons.

SOTD: Hermes Hermessence Osmanthe Yunnan, and falling out of scent love

When I first tried Osmanthe Yunnan I loved it. It wasn't in my top five, but I quite understood Luca Turin's very high rating, and I enjoyed spraying it lavishly. I loved it so much on the first sniff that I have a clear technicolor memory of walking away from the Hermes boutique on a sunny San Francisco day. I even considered springing for a full bottle, instead of the bitty 15ml one.

Then, I'm not quite sure when, my attitude changed to "Meh. Kinda sweet." And it's never recovered. I try it now and then in the hope of falling back in love, but, no. Meh. Kinda sweet.

I've finally concluded that the original love was not for Osmanthe Yunnan, but for osmanthus, a scent that I wasn't previously familiar with. Novelty carried me through a few wearings, but now I want more side dishes with my creamy sweet flowers.

Review Roundup: Is here.

Image: By Lyzzy. Wikimedia Commons.