songtoisis

In the imp, there was anise and something green, like grass, that put me off. Before I gave it away, I thought I'd test it. On application, it is more of a chewy, sugary cinnamon that has a pleasant sweet heat to it. Foodie, yummy, very pleasant little freebie perk.

I was shocked, upon application, to realize this smells like my Grandma Catherine, my father's mother that passed when I was maybe 8 or 9 years old. I didn't know it at the time, but she smelled like this, like a heather-based hand lotion, sweet and unassuming, feminine and comforting. The blackberry note is subtle, just enough to round out the heather and keep it gentle. She looked a lot like Barbara Bush with her quiet grace, strands of pearls, and glorious cap of silver-white hair. Her top dresser drawer held a few treasures for us grandchildren to discover with every visit--an old "Indian" wallet, a small French doll with a traveling chest full of clothes and tiny button boots. She wasn't Scottish, but a proud Swede married to a Scots-Irish man, and this is her scent. It is a time capsule perfume, a scent that isn't seen as very modern or youthful, but one that I think holds it's own very well as classic, feminine--the picture of wool and pocketbooks and walking adventures. Wow, I miss her.

I love vanilla and hoped this would be a rich and yummy vanilla scent. In the bottle, the dusty bite of chamomile dominates everything. There is a sense of the vanilla in the background taming things a little, warming the blend up, but not much hope of it winning the battle. On my skin, the chamomile goes through death throes, a big minty, medicinal mess with quite a bit of throw. It's unpleasant but mild enough to be bearable. Within an hour, things turn around and the vanilla notes take over. Then it has the warm, rich, sugary appeal of a fancy-foo drink from Starbucks. The chamomile, relegated to the backdrop, adds a hint of close-to-the-skin feminine complexity to what would otherwise by a crunchy sugar and creamy flavored syrup scent. Yummy stuff. Subtle, sweet, and compellingly sniffable once the chamomile has time to die down.

Mmm! Sugar Skull smells like warm carmelized sugar--both in the bottle and on my skin. On drydown, that warmth picks up a hint of spice, a subtle little kick like nutmeg or some other baking spice. My husband smells a woodsy note within the blend, but to me it is nothing but warm, toasty sugar. Delightful, delightful blend!

A week ago, I miscarried my husband and I's first child. I was fortunate enough to receive a decant of White Light from a BPALer as part of a care package she sent me. As soon as the package arrived, I sat down and annointed myself with the oil. The scent is subtle and clean, like cotton sheets hanging outside to dry, like the smell of moonlight on a dark beach, something so comforting and gentle. It is an amazing oil from a purely scent-based perspective. As a magickal oil, it helps focus and guide my intent. My emotional turmoil has evened out a bit, I'm feeling calmer and secure, and I feel the need to cry or breathe deep or otherwise expell the negativity from my body, from my soul. Thank you Beth. White Light makes it easier to be strong, reminds me of the beauty of life, and lends me the comfort of the Goddess when I've needed it most.

I love what white musk does with my skin chemistry. After almost 12 hours, the scent from my tester patch is still there, quietly doing its work. Enraged Bunny Musk is the smell of line-dried laundry--the smell that so many manufacturers try (and fail) to bottle. It smells like soft, well-worn cotton and a soft, outdoorsy kind of clean. Everything about the fragrance is soft, white, and sunny. It is utterly feminine and girly without being the least bit sweet or overpowering. For me, florals are always too strong, too cloying and perfume-y. This manages a sweet girlish quality without any of those floral or candy-sweet downfalls-- just a combination of soft powders, a warm and light musk, and that cottontail finish. Smells great!

I wanted to love this fragrance but alas, I can't. It started out with a sweet fruit and warm amber glow, with something stronger underneath that catches my throat a bit. Before long, the fruit on my skin starts to warm up and ripen until it seems rotten and inedible. That undernote burned forward and took over the scent entirely within an hour or so--a strong, insistent musk. This oil doesn't suit my personality at all--it is a little corrupt and a little decadent and a little overpowering in a way that I never am. Like its namesake poem, the scent hints at death and decay sitting out with an offering of fruit and flowers in a dark, velvet-papered parlor. It is a very goth scent--full of anguish and poetic expression and a morbid sort of elegant beauty. Not for me, but an evocative fragrance nonetheless.

Wet out of the bottle, this smells like a dark version of a warm almond cake. Small moon-shaped almond cakes on an offering plate on Samhain, waiting in a mist of incense for someone to finish their divinations for the coming year. On drydown, the strong almond scent fades into the distance and a musky, incense-laden character really comes out. This is the scent of Hecate--powerful, dark, mysterious and yet strangely comforting. This isn't an everyday fragrance for me--I'll reserve it for magickal workings, Crossroads meditations, or other solitary nighttime activities.

I'm neither "seething with passion" nor "cold-blooded" so it remains to be seen how this will work with me. Out of the bottle all I can smell is spice. There's almost a warm spice-cookie sweetness to it, a possibly edible sense to the spicyness. My husband thinks it smells like Christmas trees--all pine and juniper. It is definately a comforting, atmospheric kind of scent--it doesn't remind me of a person but rather a place in time. I'd be more likely to use this in a diffuser--it would make my home festive come midwinter.

This is definately vital and warm. On me it smells warm and powdery, comfortably clean with a subtle sweetness. It has a delicate strength and an underlying heat that would be delicious on a man. On me it seems like a secret reminder of a tryst with someone both suave and dangerous, like I'm carrying someone else's signature scent around on my skin. I wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley--or maybe I would. This mellowed out and drifted away pretty quickly on me. I reapplied later in the evening and decided that it is a very intriguing scent on me, though not very lasting.

It starts out a very strong, laughing summertime peachy fruit salad that certainly lifted my spirits this morning. Like a shallow, playful kind of joy. Now that the peach has burned off a bit, my skin smells absolutely freakin divine. I should be wearing robes and dispensing knowledge or having lots and lots of sex. Or both! It rocks and totally works with my skin in a liquid sunshine kind of way. This was a no-brainer big bottle purchase.

I'm not a fan of patchouli, but I decided to give Sin a try because of its many rave reviews. I really wasn't sure about this oil. In the bottle it reminded me of a powerful old-lady's perfume dumped on a hippie. The patchouli smell was overpowering and I'm not a patchouli girl. I'm having fun though, so I figured I'd try it on my skin to see what I got. It is drying down to that intriguing sandalwood incense of a really good witchy store. Close to my skin, the cinnamon is hovering in a wave of fire--as if licking my skin would be akin to licking an atomic fireball candy. All smoke and fire and spice--it isn't anything like my usual aura of light and breezes and pastel blues and greens. I like that--it is kick-starting something else. This would be an awesome, empowering oil to wear in ritual. At a distance it is like an incense-fueled "fuck you, I'm a witch" and close up, skimming my skin like a cinnamon secret is "fuck me, I'm a witch". -- Twenty Minutes Later: My husband caught my test scent while I was making myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He leaned in to bite my neck and stopped, hovering over my ear uncertainly. "You smell like an old lady", he said somewhat bewildered. He leaned closer for a better take on it. "And a hippie. You smell like an old hippie!" So yeah. Guess I won't be wearing this for any seductions of him. After an hour, empowering became overpowering. The insistent, pushy notes battered my every breath--I had to wash it off so I could calm down and breathe easily again. Definately a special oil--limited ritual use when I really need to pack a punch of earth and fire. For a watery air sign like me, it's a bit much to handle for long...like channeling something that doesn't comfortably fit into my body.

In the bottle, the cherry is overwhelming everything else. It's like a cherry slushie gone bad, syrup spilled out on the pavement, soaked into the wood mulch of a flowerbed, unsalvageable. Luckily the sweet/tart karate chop-cherry burns off pretty quickly and what is left behind is a strange mixture of heady florals with a warm, masculine kick. It doesn't inspire anything in me. I don't feel prettier or smarter or lighter on my feet. It doesn't remind me of a past lover, a dream, a beloved place, or a favorite food. It just is what it is. A floral men might consider wearing. On my skin, through my nose it just isn't working any magic. I asked my husband what he thought. He answered almost immediately. "It smells like that pink public bathroom soap. You know--the pink kind. I'm not saying it is good or bad, just don't wear that as your super-sexy fragrance" With that in mind, I have to agree. It does smell sorta like that cheap pink soap. Once it has dried completely, its woodsy-floral scent, while pleasant, says "just another perfume". It isn't a wow on me.