Potpourri

Whether I'm walking into a gift shoppe or someone's guest bathroom, the reaction is the same. When I get a whiff of a dusty bowl of potpourri, I immediately am transported to a land of abandoned Beanie Babies, nicotine-stained gingham curtains, and frosted tips on both fingernails and hair.

And not, let me be clear, in a good way.

I adore things that smell good. Hand-poured candles, fresh lavender, clean skin…  The smell of the great outdoors makes me swoon, but I don't want a nest of pinecones, leaves, orange peel, and dried rose petals artfully arranged in a Longaberger basket on the back of my toliet. That doesn't smell like the outside; it smells like a Bed Bath & Beyond managed by a chain smoker who just came off break and spritzed herself with a celebrity fragrance. Or maybe that's just me. Potpourri doesn't mask smells or freshen the room. It just smells like a big bowl of sad.

Like a mullet, I can't quite believe I haven't punched potpourri in its dessicated face. 

(photo: sanaakosirickylee.wordpress.com)

Celebrity fragrance

Britney, Jessica, and Mariah keep churning out stinkers, and I’m not talking about their singles. Divas keep littering cosmetic counters with hiddy scents that are not “reminscent of classic Hollywood allure,” like Forever Mariah Carey promises, but rather, call to mind “poorly dressed skank” or “botched boob job.” When we whiff “Fantasy,” are we supposed to forget about Britney’s barefoot excursions to gas station bathrooms, let alone her cooch flashing, head-shaving, paparazzi-attacking antics? Are we supposed to experience a flight of “Fancy” when sniffing the treacly trifle that arbiter of style Jessica Simpson approved between shopping at Fred Segal and getting a French mani? I can smell the marketing bullshit from here, which I guarantee is celebrifree airspace. Even if a scent doesn't induce the gag reflex, do you really want a bottle of Fergie's Outspoken embarrassing your dressing table? Stop putting money in Paris’s low-rise jeans and Jessica's ginormous Louis Vuitton bag and just say no to eau de ho.

(photo: bittenandbound.com)

Lactose intolerants in denial

This anything-but-cheesey post comes from my brilliant and hilarious friend Karrie Kohlhaas (she's the force behind ThoughShot Consulting, in case you need any small-business consulting). I love it almost as much as I love cheese. Urp.

Your dairy air is dangerous. I know, you loooove ice cream and cottage cheese, but lactose transforms your insides into a Dr. Seussian smell factory. It's time to get real about your digestion, honey. Can't you feel the pressure against your abdominal wall as gasses mushroom and multiply within the twisting tubes of your inner world?

Don't you wonder why people steer clear of you?

Here's a clue: It's awkward to feel compelled to casually cover one's nose and mouth with the top of one's shirt when sharing a seat on the bus or standing behind you in line at the grocery store. This is not a personal health issue; you are an environmental hazard. Enzymes: get some, before the EPA classifies you as a SuperFund Project.

(photo: cvmbs.colostate.edu)

Cheap incense

I was walking down the street, minding my own business, when WHAM! I was hit upside the nose with a brick wall of incense. It was streaming out of a new age shop like it was late for prayer circle.

Certain places, I've come to realize, all have the same Eau de NO: head shops, belly dancing boutiques, new age bookstores, a free outdoor concert. Whether in stick or cone form, cheap incense smells like a love child sired by a hippie’s VW van and someone who’s all up in Bikram yoga’s grill.

Incense is used for meditation or ritual. Fine. I grew up with heavy incense being swung around in church, but at least it had a lot of room to dissipate. But when you are lighting up sandalpoop and franknoncense in your chockablock shop, I'm not feeling any closer to the Divine. I am, however, edging closer to unconsciousness.

Please stop buying your incense in bulk, else I might have to beat you with a bundle of joss sticks, all the while breathing through my mouth, of course.

And I'm not just blowing smoke.

Related posts: patchouli and namaste.

(For lovely, subtle Japanese incense, try Asakichi in San Francisco's Japantown. They wrap even the smallest bundle—I like their cedar incense—in beautiful paper.)

(photo: buddhagrams.com)

Excessive fragrance

Back in the day, when fresh water and showerheads were a scarce commodity or nonexistent, folks covered their stank with aggressive oils and unguents that were slightly less overwhelming than the B.O. that comes from weeks of schvitzing and lord knows what else.

God bless the modern age and God bless the bathtub. We don’t have to mask our natural funk with a bucket of Estée Lauder’s newest eau de parfum. I don’t need to know you were in a room…three days after you bombed it with your Prince Matchabelli mushroom cloud. Your Wind Song stays on my mind…and my scent receptors.

Scent is like lingerie; only a chosen few (i.e. not your neighborhood) should have the privilege of experiencing it. A stripper once told me that she wears scented powder when she performs because as her body heats up, the scent is released and only those close to her can smell the faint fragrance. Hot.

Not so hot? Dudes doused in cologne. I can smell you too, preening across the room in your spendy CREED aftershave. I was assaulted by Drakkar Noir for pretty much all of the 80s. While all the alcohol in your cologne can be used to sterilize a wound or stoke a fire, it leaves me cold.

(photo: pocketchange.become.com)

Unidentifiable kitchen odors

It sounds like the premise of a joke: A girl walks into her kitchen and smells something strange… But it’s no laughing matter. As soon as I approach my kitchen, my cilia—the first line of defense—start vibrating. Then the smell hits my olfactory sense and I recoil from the stink punch to my face.

Extreme measures must be taken. This invisible but foul foe must be hunted down, rubbed out, and replaced with a scent I can stomach.

Where do I start? Is it the sink, trashcan, recycling bins, fridge, or perhaps the innocent-looking sponge? Where the eff is it coming from? It smells like Matthew McConaughey’s pits mingled with my grandma’s bathroom, laced with a soupçon of sour dairy, a nasty nasal cocktail to be sure. Is there a putrid poltergeist squatting in my kitchen? Am I trapped in a moody Japanese horror film? Is the new trashcan liner ass-scented? Is an alligator decomposing in my pipes? The old hard-boiled Easter eggs and sour milk were chucked days ago; could their aura live on? And I shudder to think about what could be lying in the cupboard behind the Honeycombs box.

Kitchen, what the smell is your problem? Why you gotta be all mysterious and shit? You’re an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a leftover burrito, and it’s time to wake up and smell the hoses. If you don't come clean, I'm going to scrub you raw and drown you in bleach. Suck on that, you reeking punk-ass airborne bitch.

(photo: lifehacker.com/355264)