fitforafemme.com

We had a very nice weekend. It’s interesting the way the fog works down in the lower bits of California. It’s nothing like up here. We’d wake up, step out onto our private balcony in our fluffy shocking white terry cloth robes and slippers, bemoan that somehow the cold had tailed us all the way down the coast, and then BOOM! they’d dissipate into fluffy wisps and trail lazily while the sun blazed down on us, by God.

Our suite was bigger than our flat (but smaller than our old loft). It’s humbling to come home from.

Thus, I’ve informed M that I insist on getting a king-sized bed when we move.

Her response was, “Why? Even when we sleep in one we only use half of it.”

D R A T S.

How handsome and serious does M look here, all tucked into this nook? I think it’s a little bit amusing that we both brought such dire reading to our mini-break weekend: The Gift of Fear by Gavin de Becker and What Is the What by Dave Eggers.

I also brought with me four tiny vials filled with fragrance (which I haven’t mentioned in quite some time, to my own dismay and that of others). You newcomers may not know that I used to regularly write reviews of scents at FFAF. Sometimes M would, too (those would always be of the masculine variety – most of mine are feminine or unisex). I’m going to make a real effort to reintroduce that aspect here, because it’s a lot of fun and I think scent is an important part of one’s self-expression.

You can read about the four fragrances here (as well as get some “vintage” FFAF from early 2009!):

Pillow of Flowers from Parfums d’Armando Martinez
Coup de Fouet from Caron
Cuir Ambre from Prada
Un Lys from Serge Lutens

Outfits! I am wearing my Runaway Pony dress with a belt I snagged from Fred Flare, and I topped it all off with a vintage clutch and these super hot, sherbet-esque Enzo Angiolini strappy sandals.

M’s got on Calvin Klein slacks, an RVCA dress shirt and Zara shoes. Both the tie and tie clip are vintage.

I’d love to stick around, but ZOMG Gossip Girl starts in, like, ten minutes.

(M in “resort” wear and I am in sundry Liberty of London for Target bits.)

CONFESSION: I know the rainbow heart print is a bit twee, but the button-up backline sold me on this dress. It’s a fairly well-made H&M number that I scored at a local thrift store for $5. It’s sweet and comfortable, and I love that it can be belted or not, paired with sky high heels and a skinny, studded, layered belt to punk it up a bit. Or not. (In fact, I’ve got a pair of killer moto-chic heels headed my way that I can’t wait to pair with this dress.)

SCENT: ARE WE READY FOR THE LAST OF THE LAST? I can’t say how pleased I am to be done with this sad, trashy collection of Victoria’s Secret fragrances, I honestly can’t. A friend of mine tweeted today about the arduous task of finishing a book she disliked. She started reading it in March. I think she read a bit of it each day. That’s torture. It’s exactly how I feel about this little scent experiment. Thank heavens it’s over with and I can now return to reviewing sniffs worth their salt.

Victoria’s Secret Very Sexy: I spritzed a bit on, turned to M and said, “Sweet, sharp floral…” and she added “…with citrus!” and sure enough, it’s described as a “sultry blend of sensual vanilla orchid, sparkling clementine and juicy blackberry.” It still smells like shitty potpourri and continues to on the drydown. I fail to comprehend why all of their scents are pitched as hyper sexy, alluring, come-fuck-me irresistible when they couldn’t be further from it. It’s so bad I can scarcely take satisfaction in the fact that I was right – and I love being right – the quality and caliber of their fragrances parallel the quality and caliber of their lingerie. I was open to being proven wrong or humbled, alas.

In summary, it’s all very black and white, kids. Like so:

PS. ZOMG, someone hold me back before I ruin everything I’ve been working toward and DYE MY HAIR these 84,000 colors:

CONFESSION: Last night, I tried on two of those POS wanker Victoria’s Secret fragrances I got forever ago, with a pair of super soft, sexy pajamas (free slippers with purchase!). One was so gross and cloyingly sweet that M described it as “someone trying to layer on perfume over dirty ass” and I simply referred to it as a whore’s bath perfume. Seriously. I refuse to even bequeath it to anyone since it screams CRUSTY SLUT + EXCESS BRONZER. It’s called Ooh La La, but is more like Oh, Hell Nah. I really hope none of you like it, because I’m not going to feel bad and I’m not going to take it back, either! (Damn it, I just realized that I reviewed OLL in late December of last year, in Shovels & Lye. At least I’m consistent!?)

The Fragrance was No. 2, boasts top notes of crushed leaves, freesia, mandarin (What the fuck kind of leaves? Isn’t that sort of key?) and does begin rather citrus-y and benign. I had to give it another go-round today because Ooh La La sent my senses into a diabetic coma, but it doesn’t seem to change my opinion of it as a rather boring and one-hit wonder scent. Not even a good hit, either. Something Milli Vanilli-ish. (If I spelled that wrong, it’s b/c I refuse to google it for the proper spelling. Fakers don’t get my hits! I have standards.) It’s not offensive, just boring. Very un-sexy. For instance, Laura Bush should totally check this out. It’s perfect for her.

From the Dream Angels collection comes Wish, which is TOTALLY FUCKING AWESOME if you want to smell like orange sherbet ice cream and baby powder, and reminds me of back in the day when my folks would take us to Baskin Robbins on special occasions, and someone would be like, “Oh, you should have some water,” and I’d be all, “The fuck for? I drink my water in Kool-Aid, man. Step off, my peanut-butter-and-chocolate ice cream cone is melting.” Or, you know, changing diapers. Also, it irks me that something so vile has to share the same word with a stellar The Cure album, but what are you gonna do?

Someone at the VS fragrance think tank needs to ground themselves from citrus for, like, a year, and then get back to me.

PS. Ain’t much to say about this outfit ‘cept there’s a mean cold snap this week and mama needs to go SHOPPING. I do, however, have a new brown sheath dress that is super Joan Holloway and was recently procured at the thrift store for FIDDY MOFO CENTS, YO. Holla / Coming Soon.

PPS. What the hell is up with the Christian Siriano for VS make-up collection? When the cover model on the website looks kind of rough in all your war paint, dude, you need to step up your game. Do any of y’all have it? Is it good? Not that I’m in the market…my quick beauty fix lately has been a dusting of Cargo bronzer as a wash over the entire lid, with heavy-handed mascara at the lash base instead of eyeliner. Fresno and Coral Beach are my favorites right now, but it seems the former is discontinued. SOB.

PPSS. Lips? Besame’s Red Velvet. Creamy and subtle red for when MAC’s Russian Red is too much damn work.

When: TGIFriday, Jan. 9th, 2008.

Femme What: Sheer floral t-shirt by Shameless, black jumper by French Toast, vintage silk polka dot scarf, rand-o tights and necklace-cum-belt from unmemorable origin. Black leather and wool sweater by BCBG Max Azria and boots by Lamica.

Femme Scent: Caron’s Coup de Fouet – Eau De Cologne Poivrée. It’s described as being a unisex fragrance, a “refreshing fragrance on a base of rose and carnation, accentuated with a hint of pepper.”

The intensity is overwhelming at first application. It’s spicy, almost tangy and thick with cloves, even swerving for a few moments dangerously close to potpourri. All this underneath a cloud of something medicinal. It does dry down into something much softer, and the floral gradually undulates, but all so stubbornly. The staying power is good. M said that it smells like a “scent blocker” – like it’s hiding something else, or used to cover up something. The translation is “crack the whip,” which I rather like, but this merely makes me feel perplexed, but in a sort of rabid, obsessive way.

Maybe they meant it that way. Caron, cracking the whip at all the femmes since 1957! Word.

Femme Confession: I’m seriously having some critical and urgent hair dysmorphia, y’all. M is sick of me whining about it. She’s given up trying to reassure me that my ends look just fine and simply rolls her eyes at me and tells me that I have mental problems and might want to seek help. My friends coo reassurances. I, however, continue to jump into pools of harsh light like a spastic frog or insect, grabbing a lock of hair and staring unblinking and with disgust at my split ends. It’s fucking untenable. I recently gave a lovely FFAF reader a list of salons in our area without so much as skipping a heartbeat and my BFF is absolutely thrilled with her new hair, which I helped to advise yesterday. I, however, remain homeless, salon-wise.

YOU CAN’T HELP SOMEONE WHO WON’T HELP THEMSELVES. CRY.

Tomboy What: Brixton ‘Hooligan’ plaid hat (which everyone loves and tells me they love it, including total strangers in the elevator), awesome almost-worn-in RVCA jeans, brownish-green hoodie from Express for Men, blue T-shirt from the GAP and brown boots by Aldo.

Tomboy Scent: John Varvatos Vintage cologne. Do you want to smell fancy and ruggedly handsome, like a polo player or a fighter jet pilot? This is the scent for you! Not too clean, not too dirty, definitely handsome, but a quiet handsome, not the chatty, attention-whorey handsome! Top notes and description as follows: “Brisk Moroccan coastal plants spiked with piquant fruits, cinnamon tree leaves, pepper, lush florals, smooth woods, and Turkish tobacco make this scent truly unforgettable.”

Tomboy Confession: I sneaked out for a fancy hot dog for lunch today, even though it takes me forever to get there and back, because they are THAT good! It pisses me off that they are so far, and that they only accept cash and that it’s in the middle of a stupid mall, BUT I STILL GO THERE! Today, I find that prices have gone up some 25% for a hot dog, but you know what? I will probably be going back sooner or later. Sucker!