I took one of them, a loose translation of Fracas, poured it into a perfume atomizer and proceeded to spray myself -- liberally -- everywhere. Then I got into a car. A very tiny car. With my husband. A very large husband.
About five minutes into our drive, he asks, "What is that scent?" He shifts the car into 5th gear, his shoulder brushing against mine.
"It's something I made." I replied happily.
"It smells like . . ."
"Oh, isn't it wonderful?" I ask. "I've been working on layering scent, y'know, like top goes first, then middle, then bottom, and they combine and meld and . . ." I prattle on.
"Like . . . a urinal."
I just sit there open-mouthed, my tiny blooming new perfumer's heart crushed. "A urinal?"
"Yeah." He answers. "Or an old lady's bathroom. Like she's sprayed her favorite perfume in the bathroom to mask the odor of stale urine."
I sniff my wrist.
"Ooh! I know!" He exclaims, his index finger pointing in the air. "It smells like a nursing home!"
"So, did you like the other perfume I made? The clementine perfume?" I ask dejectedly.
"Yeah, I liked that one. It smelled like candy."
Urinals and candy. Wonderful.
The lesson here is: Always test drive your perfume.