He Who Smelt It – Episode 4: Vanilla Spice Spice Baby
I consider myself a man of simple tastes. There’s nothing particularly fantastic about the things I like. That’s not to say that I have no taste, or bad taste. Quite the contrary in my mind. I’m not one who needs the newest, biggest, or baddest, of anything. I’m not trendy, but my preferences don’t stray from the norm in any garish way either. I pride myself on standing apart, of being my own man, but not with any pomp or flash.
My wedding band has a raised ridge running down the middle that sets it apart in the tiniest of ways. If I were a millionaire, my dream car would still be a Jeep Wrangler. I love the sparse prose of Ernest Hemingway and Cormac McCarthy, but James Joyce and William Gaddis give me fits – Reading Ulysses is like trying to watch ten different TVs at the same time, each tuned in to a different program, some with subtitles, and all with the volume cranked up to 11. I love the raw emotion of the blues, but progressive jazz gives me tachycardia. I get all giddy when I stumble across a rare vintage t-shirt at Goodwill, but that new $200 pair of shoes or designer dress shirt that people can’t live without does nothing for me.
I’d prefer to call myself refined, however, refinement seems a lofty pedestal on which to place myself. My refinement sits in the corner, waiting patiently and gathering dust. Maybe I’ll get to dust it off one day. Maybe I won’t. Perhaps I’m modestly refined? Somewhat refined? I don’t know. It’s subjective. To me, the word “refined” implies an appreciation and understanding of the finer things. The refined have a supreme knowledge of scotch or wine, culinary art, fashion trends, German auto engineering, European stock markets, sailing, French new wave cinema, artists of the Renaissance, or a plethora of other things that I don’t possess. There’s a sophistication there I can’t self-apply. The refined are geeks in a sense, but what they geek out about allows them to rise above this term. Geeks love Star Wars and Joss Whedon. The refined prefer 8 1/2 and Jean-Luc Godard. Jocks (sports geeks) love football and basketball. The refined prefer jai alai or polo. The refined like progressive jazz, and books that require them to read other books to make sense of them.
Anyway, like I’m prone to do, I’ve hijacked the logic train and taken its passengers on a ride deep into some dark and far-reaching corner of tangent land. Let’s get this wayward train back on track.
I was accompanied last week by M. Micaleff Vanilla Orient. It had me at first spritz. The reason is simple. It didn’t try too hard to impress. Every other scent I’ve reviewed up to this point has come out swinging fists of fury. Most have been quite haughty with their initial barrage of competing scents, each vying to overwhelm and conquer the others. Some pull back on the reigns, but some continue to offend. M. Micaeff Vanilla Orient was a different breed altogether. I was shocked at how inoffensive this one was. I thought initial pungency was just a thing. Lesson #56 learned. I got the vanilla. I got the spice, but just enough of each. Both have the power to overwhelm, which was a concern when I first read the label (especially the vanilla, which I typically disdain). I was wrong. They completely balance each other out and, because of this, never overwhelm. There’s nothing flashy about this fragrance. It’s laid-back, singular, interesting, but not too complex. It’s this simplicity that makes it perfect. It’s this simplicity that sets it apart. It’s more of a side dish than an entrée, but it tastes just as good. It’s a Jeep Wrangler. It’s a vintage t-shirt. It’s blues music. It’s me.
There’s a quote from the film High Fidelity that popped into my head at the beginning of the week, and it wouldn’t leave me alone. I feel it’s worth mentioning, so I’ll go out with it. Midway through the film, Rob Gordon, the distressed and contrite narrator says this about his ex-girlfriend: “She didn’t make me miserable, or anxious, or ill-at-ease. And you know, it sounds boring, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t spectacular, either. It was just – good. But really good.” I think that adequately describes the relationship I’d like to have with my cologne. I could have that with M. Micallef Vanilla Orient.
PS – Dee, you sneaky little monkey. This is a fragrance for women (as are some others I’ll write about soon). Had I not researched in advance, it would never have crossed my mind that this was even a possibility. Lesson # 57 – I can’t always tell a masculine fragrance from a feminine one. That being said, I’m curious. What do the ladies out there think of this one?
annemariec
dee
Chére
Dionne
Adam
What a really wonderful and insightful review. I really enjoyed it. And yes there are some “women’s” perfumes out there that men can rock with confidence. It can be fun to explore that arena.
Thanks for the kind words. Like I said in the review, the guy in me always thought he could tell between a masculine and feminine scent, but I’m always learning new things. Question to anyone who knows the answer: Why don’t they market these to both men and women?
Not that I know for sure all the reasons behind it, but there are already SO many fragrances out there – if they were all together, “regular” folks would not wade through all of them and need some boundaries and guidelines. so I think that when scents get put in stores, they have to pick one side or the other. Of course, anyone should wear what they like, but at least when things say “feminine” or “masculine”, you may have a vague idea of how they will smell, certainly for mainstream stuff. Girls smell like flowers or fruit or candy and boys smell like aftershave and wood. Us more experienced folk know to just judge the juice without the designations, and I think there are many more indie or niche scents that would be considered unisex than mainstream ones.
This makes complete sense. I didn’t make it there. Your reasoning is way too logical for me. Marketing all the potential in-betweeners as appropriate for either may just make things more confusing for all, and ultimately cost the fragrance makers business.
I don’t know the answer Adam, but you sure are handsome.
Wow. Thanks so much for the compliment. I’m flattered!
You had me at : “I love the sparse prose of Cormac McCarthy”
That’s where I should have everybody. He’s may be the best we’ve got.
Adam, I am super-sneaky!
Hahah, well, I wanted to hear your persepctive on this series (was it 4? 5?) and some are more masculine, some more feminine.
I really do believe that we should just ignore those designations and wear what we enjoy wearing; since fragrances smell different on everyone, and we perceive them differently… man/woman designations are silly! And you nicely demonstrated this to be true…
A fragrance that’s really “wearable” is harder to find than it sounds. Perfumistas find fragrances we love, and love to wear, but often those fragrances require particular moods, weather, outfits, feelings, etc., to be worn.
Something that can be worn and enjoyed no matter what the circumstances… that’s a real treasure!
There are 4 of them. One was just too much for me, so I’ll have a guest author on that review. Let’s invent this scent you speak of.
*Rubs hands together and says hmmm like a bad guy hatching a dastardly plot .
hahaha, good idea
Adam, I have to agree with Debbie. You truly are a handsome man! Beauty and brains…how nice to see them both in one package. Seeing your blog photo always carries me back to a time that can’t possibly have been more than a short memory ago (thirty years…no way!), and I still see you, the Gerber Baby, looking back at me from the other side of your high chair, your baby bed, or even the pages of a magazine (you can explain that one to your blogging buddies yourself).
I thought you were special then, as I do now, and wondered what kind of giving back your sweet soul would perform later, when you were a man. It’s no disappointment to see that you’ve done it in the form of writing. It’s the greatest
fun to read what you write. Do continue. And give my best to your beautiful, precious wife…and my condolences to dear Debbie. Grins.
Love,
Mom
Well, what can I say? I’m 35 and still her baby. Mom, thanks for the compliments. If I was 16 I’d be mortified. Love Ya!