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CONFESSION: Today was a day for the bank. I attended a private tasting of Dalmore’s 12, 15, Gran Reserva and King Alexander III single malt scotch whiskys, plus a very special bonus tasting, at the methodically handsome Laszlo in the Mission. The dear Scottish man who led the tasting said that I reminded him of a lovely, elegant Lowlands single malt scotch whisky, when he wasn’t spitting onto the floor at any mention of the French. (You can eventually read more about all that here, at my “other” blog. I don’t want to spoil it.) They were kind enough to let me pop upstairs before and after the tasting to take some super awesome FFAF photos, hurrah. Just a moment ago the UPS guy arrived with a very important package, and I was so excited that M said I made a big old ruckus of “kitten noises,” whatever those are. It contained a new dress (not-so-LBD) and super badass new shoes. I can’t wait to show y’all! M is well enough to drink a bottle of cava with me (finally!) and lasagna is baking in the oven with some fluffy garlic bread in hot pursuit. DREAMY.

SCENT: Tom Ford’s Black Orchid. I must confess something. I broke up with Tom awhile ago, but after reading about his directorial debut starring Colin Firth (and Julianne Moore) in A Single Man, I’ve realized something very, very important: My love for Colin is greater than my hate for Tom. Does that make sense? Of course it does. (He’s Mark-bloody-Darcy, after all.) I digress. Black Orchid is a hot, heady, stunning mess. The jury is out on whether or not that’s a good or bad thing. The opening is almost like scorched black licorice drizzled over jasmine and sundry florals, like in Absinthe or Drambuie. It does kind of smolder, all bared teeth, glossed lips and super dangerous bedroom eyes. This smells like the kind of woman you should stay away from – you know better, of course – but you can’t help yourself. I’m going to have to come back to this, because it’s too complex!

Here are some notes, FYI: Black Truffle, Ylang, Bergamot, Black Currant. Then the black orchid, dark florals, rich fruit, Lotus Wood. At last, there’s Patchouli, Incense, Vetiver and Vanilla Tears, Balsam and Sandalwood.

Watch this and tell me you don’t find it completely gorgeous. Seriously.

And since it was one of the most beautiful stills:

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: I love this dress so. It’s easy and comfortable, but pretty. It looks better without the white tights (points to anyone who gets the lyrical reference), and I’ll post it that way someday but it is COLD here, so tights you are. (Get it? Tights you are! Right you are! Ha!) My little kitty friend came to take pictures with me, she’s very affectionate; she’ll jump up and paw at me like a puppy might. It’s adorable. I love her!

SCENT: Let’s not dilly-dally, I’ve got a different Victoria’s Secret perfume on either arm just waiting to be scrubbed off, ach so:

God, just look at that packaging. Cue involuntary sneer! OK, OK. Super Model out of the vial makes me think of soft vanilla and citrus, orange, actually, like a creamsicle. (M’s favorite!) It’s terrible. She likes it, which concerns me, but she is sick after all. On the drydown, it becomes something like stale, matted cotton candy.

Dream Angels Heavenly (America’s No. 1 fragrance, according to the VS website) shows some promise right away – quince, cardamom, white peony – but fades into boring, stuffy mediocrity. I will definitely have to hold this up against Dream Angels Desire to compare the two.

Y’all? I only have one more of these crap vials to test and report, and the epic experiment is final. To celebrate this, I have a very special fragrance post in the works. All I can say is that it involves intimate peeks into the cologne closets of two roguish tomboys, and you will want to go to there. Just in time for the holidays, too! I can’t wait, and I bet neither can you. Until then, kittens!

XOXO,

SBJ

PS. This chair had a cold puddle. I sat in it. Bugger.

CONFESSION: Spot the Maker’s! That wee bottle was critical in my speedy recovery from this miserable CRUD sickness I have only just now come out of (alive, praise Dolly), after 9 hellish days of being bedridden. God, I despise being sick. I despise being slowed down. Do y’all know how fast I go? FAST. It was unpretty, but we are moving forward. By now you may have heard that we (as in San Fran-fussy-cisco) had a whole hour of 300 MPH torrential downpour blues earlier today. Hayes Valley, the Van Ness Muni station, parts of the Mission flooded in some places up to three feet. There was some nonsense about a new pumping station, but come the bloody fuck on, people, if we can’t handle an hour of heavy rain then what on earth do we do when it rains steadily for days? CRY. DROWN. I would like to see how drowning rat hipsters handle that situation, I really do. Hm. Food for thought!

CURRENT OBSESSIONS:

• Reviewing fragrances and makeups here at FFAF again
• The perfect pair of brown (dark or mahogany) cowboy boots
• Making a delicious dish of scalloped potatoes from scratch
• Bourbon balls (you bitches know who you are)
• Horseback riding in some semi-regular capacity on the cheap
• Finishing a re-read of Ayn Rand’s Anthem, which started in the tub last night
• Trying to forgive myself for getting rid of a) an ashy purple velvet blazer and b) asymmetrical dresses, both from years ago, since they’re “back” – don’t you just fucking hate that?

DREAMY:

CONFESSION: At least we all know that I’ve been neglecting FFAF because I’ve been busy kicking ass in bartending school, which I GRADUATED from just an hour ago, I am most pleased to say. Yay! I am exhausted. It’s hard to get up 7AM to take the petite to school and then work all day and look after pups and be femme and fight off Mission creepshows and then spend over 4 hours on your feet hustling behind a make-believe bar, damn it! Even if I do sometimes (OK, most times) crawl back into bed with M for an hour or two in the mornings. Still. It was fun, I learned a lot, but boy am I glad it’s done with! Now I can get back to throwing parties and posting fancy outfits and whatnot.

This, though, is the REAL confession: I used to belt out this Expose song very earnestly when I was wee, and I still know every word. By the time I was eight years old, I’d mastered the art of making myself cry whilst singing every note perfectly from Annie’s Tomorrow on my Fisher-Price record player, from the window in my bedroom, all wet-eyed with hope against all hope.

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*Big bag by Betsey Johnson!

CONFESSION: So, the weekend! It was officially kicked off at bartending school, where we sped through our lesson to get to the tequila lecture and tastings. I learned that sipping tequila straight is like unleashing a pack of hellhounds on your palate, unless it’s an anejo, or extra-anejo. M & I stayed up late watching old episodes of Grey’s Anatomy and eating the Indian food we had delivered.

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CONFESSION: This outfit was my attempt at being comfortable and cozy on a big double-decker twilight bus tour of San Francisco on a clear and beautiful evening in August. Guess what!? I froze my tits off, despite the fact that I had a leather jacket on. And tights. And boots. Sigh. My travel companions had only the thinnest cashmere sweaters and / or hoodies on, and they were even worse off. I desperately wished that I’d brought my navy blue earmuffs for skiing with me! Still, it was a great time for everyone, and when we all disembarked way down on the water, right next to the Hyde St. Maritime Museum, we stumbled into the warm and fragrant embrace of Lou’s Blues Club for dinner. My fried chicken was BOSS. We thawed off in no time at all, and even headed to Ghirardelli for massive helpings of ice cream for dessert. It was excellent!

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