Tuesday, April 27, 2010
A Perfumer's Work is Never Done
Since I'm just as likely to win the lottery as I am to be crushed by a vending machine, per the odds reported by the illustrious and ever vigilant champions of "real news", Yahoo! News, I suspect sticking with what I'm doing is the best course of action at this time. Until I win the lottery. Or until I get crushed under a potato chip machine at the rest stop just south of Modesto, at which point, none of this will matter.
Just discovered to my absolute and utter horror that a full liter bottle of Khamsa eau Fraiche evaporated into the ether. Either that or the cats drank it. I don't know what happened to it. It has been sitting in its dark cupboard for months, maturing, its cap tightly screwed down, and then a few days ago, I took it out and saw swill at the bottom of the bottle! Swill! Nice smelling swill, I admit, but SWILL! So now I'm off to gather the bits and pieces of aromatic loveliness that make up Khamsa and start over again.
I'm not one of those independently wealthy Natural Botanical Perfumers who laughs off spilling an ounce of rose otto on their laps like they spilled a little seltzer water. I once scrimped and saved and bought a fine amount of vanilla absolute only to have the aluminum container it arrived in explode and spew vanilla all over my blending desk. Okay, it didn't really explode. There was a tiny pin hole in the bottom of the container and the contents leaked out over months -- no spewing either. It just sounds more dramatic when your raw materials have a life of their own and do things to you on purpose.
My point is that losing this stuff HURTS, dammit!! First my pocket book, and second, my heart. I mean, I get really attached to this stuff, they're like my little friends, my buddies. I remember crying once when I decanted a liter of patchouli and spilled an ounce or so all over my arm -- why? Because I had to wash it off! In my wildest dreams I'd love to bathe in patchouli oil, hell, show me a slip'n'slide covered in patchouli oil and I'm there! No, I cried because I had to wash it off. Because I had to use a kitchen towel to wipe up what dribbled onto the table and couldn't really make use of a kitchen towel as a fashion accessory. If I had used my shoes, for example, or my purse to wipe up the patchouli, I'd have been one happy perfumer! I have to admit, after washing the kitchen towel with the other kitchen towels, my kitchen towels, and my kitchen for that matter, smelled heavenly. Just as it did when the al embic vomited frankincense sludge all over the cabinets . . .