Newsflash: I'm not a writer any more

Last week I received my official offer letter from GetaLife. Although the contents were generally agreeable - my salary was bumped up a few grand - my new job title made me giggle. Seems I am not a writer any more, I'm a Communications Consultant.

I mean, give me a fucking break.

I suppose the biggest problem I have with the title is that I keep thinking of the despair.com Demotivator that describes consultants - or more precisely, consulting:

Melina slips her date a mickey

I've never pretended to like summer in Texas, and this summer isn't any different. It's oddly depressing, which in some ways makes no sense, as I need a certain amount of sun to prevent SAD. And I loved the Australian sunshine. But the heat becomes downright oppressive.

I suppose part of the problem is my choice of cars, although I understand that hardtops for Z3s are available. But when I've left it parked in the sun for a few hours, it's incredibly unpleasant to climb into. Black leather seats at about 200F feel about as comfortable as you would expect.

Last night I managed to quit kvetching about the heat for long enough to shower, shave my legs and visit Delightful Date for a while. We'd both considered postponing as we were both tired, but gradually we gave in to temptation as always. He'd spent the holiday weekend at his mother's, and like my own visits to my mom, he has to sleep on the sofa when he's there. So he doesn't sleep well. And since he's always doing home repairs during his time there, he's twice as tired when he gets back to his own place.

Anyway, the gist of it all is that our congress ended on an amusing note. He lay down suddenly, muttering that he "felt old". I wittily replied that he didn't taste old. Then I realized he was asleep. So I got dressed and tiptoed out.

About an hour later I received a text from him (he's one of those Blackberry addicts). He didn't remember anything about his sudden narcoleptic attack and was wondering where I'd gone to, and was highly embarrassed when I filled him in. I think part of the problem was that he's become used to being the orchestrator of extended sessions of carnality when I visit, so the relative quickie made him feel a little guilty. (Although to be honest, it wasn't that quick.)

But I wasn't remotely bothered. I was happy. I did tell him that he would find my attentions relaxing. And he looked so peaceful when he dozed off.

Why do men almost always look younger when they're sleeping?

Perfume by the ounce, or why didn't someone think of this before?

I often balk at buying perfume simply because I don't want as much as I'm being forced to buy. I even have difficulty going through my favorites like Miss Dior and Angel, although I did manage to snag a small promotional Angel bottle that the folks at Neiman's will refill for a very affordable $35.00.

Recently I came upon the problem again. Mugler came out with a wonderful, limited edition of Angel for Men - this time with coffee. Even though it was a man's fragrance, I flipped over it. But I didn't buy it as I didn't want to spend $65.00 on something I wouldn't wear often.

However, I was happy to spend a smaller amount of money for a smaller size. I got it from this Web retailer called The Perfumed Court. They literally "decant" perfumes and sell them in smaller sizes at smaller prices. Perfect for those of us who are, well, decadent cheapskates.

An impolite fragrance or an old lady perfume?

Feeling somewhat better, but still having slept until after noon today (a common sign I'm depressed; I see sleep as "death but without all that responsibility" during these times), I decided to borrow from a favorite blog of mine, Perfume Shrine. There is a longish description of one of my all time favorite perfumes, Miss Dior. I've edited it somewhat.

Technically a floral leathery chypre, Miss Dior is a soigné miss only in exterior appearances, all prim and proper, because once inside the beast takes over and you smell the animal in its peak of copulating frenzy. Although there is the clean overlay of soft flowers you catch a whiff of more feral, impolite essences. Under the clean exterior there is the carnal cat-call and you feel as if it is perhaps too scrubbed clean to be without ulterior motive.

The base is smothered in troubling patchouli, moss and earthy vetiver. However, this is not the pared-down patchouli of modern fragrances that is so ubiquitous in everything churned out at a frantic pace in the last couple of years.

Christian Dior confided that

"...I created this perfume to dress every woman with a trail of desire, and to see emerging from her small bottle all my dresses...”.

Based on a formula by Jean Carles, it was composed by Paul Vacher, introduced in 1946, and later re-arranged in 1992 by Edmond Roudnitska in extrait de parfum. It hoped to open new vistas of optimism after the privations of the war and in a way it did.

It is interesting to note that by today’s standards Miss Dior smells “old-fashioned”, even though it was conceived as a young fragrance aimed at debutantes. Less polite souls would baptize it “old lady”, a blanket term so lacking in qualitative nuance that renders it completely useless.

Indeed, I was able to witness its effect personally. I happened to spritz a vintage (circa 1985) emerging from a ladies’ restroom, washing in front of two teenager girls who were watching me through the mirror while glossing their puckered lips. Aren’t those times titillating for budding womanhood? Of course I volunteered to scent them, ever eager to introduce young girls into proper perfumes. One of them staggered back in what seemed like abject horror (judging by the look in her eye) professing the opinion it was “too heavy for her”, the other was more cooperative and allowed me two spritzes on her woolen scarf. Although at first she too seemed a little overwhelmed, after a minute, when alcohol had evaporated, she took the scarf close to her nose and nuzzled deeply. Yeah, there was a look of mischief in her eye as she thanked me.

And there you have it: Miss Dior has this double effect; it will make some think it’s heavy and old, it will entrance others on second sniff.

These days, Miss Dior is difficult to find but worth searching out. Before our first date, Delightful Date literally made a trip to Saks in the Galleria to discover it before we met. He had asked my perfume preference beforehand, admitting it was important to him. Later, I admired him when he described his trip to Saks. He'd quickly dismissed the new and semi-offensive Miss Dior Cherie when the staff offered it to him, stating "that can't be the right one; it smells like it belongs on a 12-year old".

I also admit to a dreadful weakness for Mugler's Angel. When it was introduced, I let the perfume sniper at Neiman's park score a hit on me on my way out. As it dried down, I realized I liked it so much that I literally turned around on Central Expressway, returned to Northpark and bought my first fix.

Silly cat photo du jour