big brat world
perfume reviews meet poetry
Rubber, vinyl, alcohol; bitterness stuck in the mouth like the remnants of a dry swallowed pill. A little bit Bvlgari Pour Femme dried on the inside of the top drawer of my mother's mahogany dresser. Walking through a cloud of hairspray in a country club locker room. Hugging Aunt Pat goodbye after chain smoking on Christmas Eve, her bauble necklace getting stuck in my hair, metal sticking to my fingers after undoing the chain.
The sticky sweet stuck scent of incense burned in the same room for decades to cover up something rotten. Essential oils melting in the sun like ice cream. Spray this into a book and its meanest character will become charmed. A tall woman with heavy breasts smacks her bubblegum as she orders another Manhattan at the dive bar; the flustered bartender scrambles to find the brandied cherry.
Violet Baudelaire would wear this perfume. It's sweet but heavy like smoking a cigar over a pancake breakfast. A generous pour of syrup, a sizable knob of butter, and yes, jam too. Breakfast of a rebellious know-it-all before the big test that decides their future, and they could go either way. Ivy League smart but in an elaborate art heist way. Undermining authority with a gentle kiss.
This is what an Urban Outfitters would smell like if it was full of trees instead of clothes. Board-folding clothes in the shade of the mountains. A cool wind moves through leaves bringing autumn on its back. 55 degrees, blue sky going forever, early morning. You have the whole day to shop but you just want to collect pinecones. Exploring nature to escape consumerism just to scroll on your phone.
Nice and clean in a natural way, like bathing in a secluded lake. You hopped in the shower before remembering you were out of soap so you just use water and it's enough. Lightly sweet but it's an afterthought; l'esprit de l'escalier. Someone leaning into your neck to share gossip but you've already turned away. There's a subtle pull, like the allure of a nondescript building. You'll never know what goes on in there but you're curious.
Lemonade from Six Flags. Too sugary to truly be hydrating, in fact now you're thirstier. A lemon Italian ice palette cleanser on an empty stomach. Children's fingers sticky with popsicle. This is what a babysitter would wear. The smell would linger on dolls and in their hair and in their houses. A big group nap on a humid summer day to break up a morning of doing nothing and an evening of doing even less.
A vanilla cupcake pie to the face. Vanilla frosting, vanilla cake, pure vanilla until you're sick with it. Then something breaks open, but only slightly like a stubborn clam. The pearl is in too deep to know what it's really made of, but you think it might be crunchy dead leaves. You're too busy trying to shuck the pearl you don't hear the clear river rolling gently behind you, pushing the air of green forest towards you.
Holiday season in the Alps. Wreaths absolutely everywhere. You're looking for a specific piece of jewelry hidden deep in your vintage armoire. Instead you find a bottle of brown booze, half-drunk, the twist-top lid sticky with syrup and lipstick. Lust is heavy in the air and it's comforting like a warm blanket straight after the harsh cold. You're flushed, but you're not sure if it's from the snow or the drink.
A tea-party themed sleepover. Goodie bags from a helicopter mom. Everyone's in their second-best dresses with matching shoes and belts and headbands. This smells like reading "The Care and Keeping of You" to your friends and their American Girl dolls over iced tea in a freshly mowed backyard surrounded by white picket fence. Everyone here gets good grades and wants to be president. Everyone here is a good girl.
Sweet adhesive, like a band-aid over a bee sting. Talcum powder slowly falling down the air like fine dust. I think: ballerinas, a muted blue sky, Excel spreadsheets, rich aunts and their inground pools. Wisteria climbing in and around the fences of gated communities. Easily wear this to etiquette lessons while daydreaming of your debutante heydays. Slicked back bun not required but strongly encouraged.
A strong gin martini drunk by a high-powered woman who's had a long day. Her fiancée sent dozens of lilies to her office just because and she's thinking of breaking up with him. Not a regular mom, but a cool mom, or a mom who didn't want to be a mom but now she's here, delegating school lunches to the private chef and cutting a check to the boarding school. Stacks of books wrapped in cellophane. Brand new car smell plus a cigarette to take the edge off.
The coolest girl you know invited you to a party. The floor of her Jeep Wrangler is covered in tubes of lip gloss, thrift store receipts, mismatched earrings and press-ons with the dried glue still sticking. There's a sandalwood air freshener that’s been empty for months clipped to the passenger air vent. You stop at the liquor store first for cheap vodka and twist top white wine. She buys a pack of Marlboro Light 100 Golds. The sun is setting, the windows are down, you're rolling a joint to share on the walk from the car to the front door. If she asked you to bail, you would.
A nap in a pool house. Sunblock applied hours ago, skin comfortably warm in the sun, your nose in a beach read. A willow tree dotes on you and your best friend while you swap secrets. A line of laundry idly swaying in the breeze. A storm is rolling in, but first: the air, its damp hello.
I immediately think of my cousin Amber. You don't know her, but you should. Y2K teen, but actually a teen and actually in the early 00s. Suburban mall scrawl, finding a parking spot, listening to Hilary Duff or Green Day. After the dry down, it softens. Take the memory and pour a spice drawer over it. Spices with loose lids so they're quieter, but still there. It's a hot mess in the best way, meaning on purpose, meaning easily, meaning with charm.
Fruit, almond croissants, finger desserts, all coated in powdered sugar and rolled in on a tray compliments of the chef. You take the half-empty bottle of champagne to the bath with you and drink straight from the bottle. They laid out cucumbers for your eyes but you ate them instead; you're not much for sweets and you're hungry. You call down to the front desk: what's good to eat around here?
Roses. Red, pink, white, yellow roses. Falling asleep in a rose bush and waking up in a rose bush that's grown twice the size. Walking out the door and being handed a rose. Being handed a rose by everyone you ever walk past. You've had to hire a service to collect and carry your roses. You bathe in rosewater, spray your house with it. You're surrounded, but you don't feel closed in. Moreso embraced.
To test this, I sprayed it on a page from a Sylvia Plath book, which seems to perfectly fit. I smell tires, asphalt, chimney smoke and powder. Gun powder or makeup powder, I don't know. There's a soft violence reaching out to touch me and I want to touch it back. As it dries down, I smell chemicals diluted in lemon, like walking into a deep cleaned commercial kitchen. A crime happened here.
all images taken from frangratica.com