Pour Monsieur-Olfactory Overload

“This fragrance, for me, inhabits a world apart. Both modern and classical, enfolded in its sophisticated construction seems a summary of the history of male fragrance. It’s Alan Rickman reading a sonnet. Never shouting, it smoothly unfolds, from a cultivated lavender smile, through a breathless cardamom aria, to opoponax, vanilla, and natural oak moss. It grows slowly but never precipitously deeper, with enchanting nuance, calm, and distinction. Perfection at last? No, but pretty close. Polge’s flair for combining masculinity and class rarely fails.”
27 February 2009-Anonymous Fragrance Review of Chanel Pour Monsieur Concentree on Basenotes.net

This is an anonymous fragrance review from Basenotes.net for Chanel Pour Monsieur Concentree in production since 1989. But, for me Alan Rickman reading a sonnet and lavender are the last things that come to mind when I hear the words Pour Monsieur.

Allow me to enlighten you about my personal history with Pour Monsieur and why it is on my brain at precisely this moment. Four days ago it was my baby Sister’s birthday when an inside family joke resurfaced, written on her Facebook Wall by our other Sister. It was at that moment that the Pour Monsieur memories came flooding back.

The last few weeks have been painfully negative news-wise. I am a news addict, but, even I grow tired of reading, hearing and watching the harsh realities of the world outside. Hence the reasons that I would like to let you in on the family joke and talk a little bit how smell evokes nostalgia for me.

Eight years ago my cousin was married in Staten Island, New York. My Uncle was living in Florida at the time so he travelled up for the wedding. When he ventured back to Port Saint Lucie he left behind a fragrance bottle, Pour Monsieur Concentree by Chanel. Upon finding the cologne at my Mother’s house my Sister, Cheryl and my little Sister, Sharon’s boyfriend, Chris began spraying the fragrance at one another repeatedly. It was not enchanting, calm and distinctive; it was overpowering. The fact that my family members were dousing one another with it made it that much worse. It was putrid. Apparently, gratitude for the humor that was created belongs to a perfumer/chemist named Jacques Polge and my Uncle’s then wife who loved shopping at Bergdorf Goodman. A game began where Pour Monsieur would pop up in dressers, drawers, closets, bags and numerous places where it had been hidden by a given prankster.

But, I giggle the most about the name my Sister gave the delightful scent, which was the literal English annunciation of the words Pour Monsieur. (Pour, as you would pour a beverage, monsieur, sounding like mons-sure) Staten Island is overwhelmingly Italian American; I would wager to say that the French spoken there is very minimal. In SI, dropping the letter R off of a word ending in the letter R is commonplace in the island dialect. Just imagine how funny the word monsieur sounds when being spoken by a Staten Islander; it sounds riotously funny. Tears of laughter inevitably stream down my face whenever the words Pour and Monsieur are said together. Having taken several semesters of French in college and having been employed by a French publicist for a number of years the butchering of the words brings on a fit of laughter. I have fallen in love with the incorrect manner in which we refer to this item which was purchased in a luxury department store.

Life’s aromas evoke such memories for me. There are some smells that bring me so much comfort. Fire wood burning is reminiscent of a family vacation we took the Poconos when I was young. Apple pie and cinnamon remind me of my favorite holiday, Thanksgiving and togetherness. Peonies, my absolute favorite flower in varied hues of pink, the color I adore provokes thoughts of June, when it blooms, the month I was born and shopping for flowers for my wedding day. Basil and Rosemary remind me of my Grandmother, Gilda cooking. A wisp of gasoline brings me back to my parent’s Chrysler LeBaron Convertible, sitting in the car while they filled up at Certo’s.

Then there are the smells I despise, which my olfactory glands could do without ever smelling again. The smell of burning rubber immediately horrifies me because it takes me back to the two months after 9/11/01. Flowers without adequate water changes sitting in a vase are the equivalent of my dog making the unwise decision to chase a skunk and me having to cope with the aftermath. Goldschlager and anything resembling black licorice remind me of a time I had one too many shots and a poor cab driver had to cope with the aftermath. (For a while I worked in a club; if the smell of this alcohol cropped up while I was doing bar inventory or clearing a register I would have to instantly dart away)

The same fragrance being worn by masses of the population at the same time also end up on the, “Pee-you list.”During the 80’s and early 90’s it was Drakkar Noir. During the mid to late 90’s this was Issey Miyake and CK One. People at SUNY FIT, where I went to college would bathe themselves in this stuff and then head to class.

Why would anyone want to smell like everyone else? Fragrance should be such a personal thing. Sephora, the beauty retailer actually ranks the top selling perfumes in their stores with numbers. Coco Chanel once said, “In order to be irreplaceable one must always be different.” Weird that I have chosen to quote the women whose last name is on the bottle of something that is a running joke among family. I quote her because she was a fashion icon. I steer clear of Sephora’s 1-10 and choose that which pleasant to me, which tend to be perfumes that are floral and vibrant. (Stella in Two Peony by Stella McCartney and Nannette Lepore are beautiful to me personally)

In closing….

Pour l'Homme, pour les Dames, ne pas verser sur votre parfum.

From the Mouth of Babes

A little startling tap on the back, through bleary blinking eyes I field a question”, When I came out did I wear a dress?” It’s 6:30 am and I am awakened by a diminutive person with brilliant red hair affray, piercing light blue eyes, pink pouty lips and a heart shaped face. Every morning the same scenario plays out and every day I am unprepared to answer these questions. If I was slick I might rise an hour prior and caffeinate as preparation for the barrage of questions but, I am in denial, believing these impromptu press conferences are going to cease. My four year old daughter is the person giving the query.

Back to the question at hand about being clothed at birth, how I answer this question is critical. If I, being caught off guard give a terse or a deceitful response it will come back to haunt me for weeks, privately and publicly. My answer to this question will be repeated at school, to numerous strangers on line in front of us in Target and in the Post Office. I am of the mindset that these questions should be answered honestly, in a simple and non detailed fashion. For all of you non parents out there, you learn not to give detailed responses because they only lead to more questions. So, I respond, “No, you did not come out wearing a dress; we all come out wearing no clothing.

The question du jour was related to our upcoming vacation to Disney World, “When we go to Mickey’s House, can I hug Mickey’s Dad?” Initially, I want to just say yes and move on, because I did not get an adequate amount of sleep last night. But, then I realize that this is a trick question, as far as I know Mickey Mouse does not have a dad. My yes would have caused news about Mickey’s non-existent Dad to spread like wildfire. Accordingly, I respond, “No, you cannot hug Mickey’s Dad because he does not live at Mickey’s house.” Had I chosen to say that Mickey does not have a Dad that would have led to questions about death or a Dad that fled Mickey and his family.

Sometimes, I am posed the same question, several times worded differently at different times. I think, I have answered this one before; I feel as though I am experiencing de-ja-vu. Either my little interviewer is unsatisfied with my initial response or this is simply a game. Sometimes, I will be driving and a familiar question will be uttered and then before I have a chance to respond my original answer will be repeated by said questioner. Sometimes, I will have an opportunity to respond and then my answer will be repeated in a quizzical fashion. If you’ve even seen the movie Super Troopers envision the scene with the repeater game, where everything said is being repeated with the intonation to make it sound like a question. I think to myself, this child does not think my answer was believable.

One such quiz that I repeatedly fail or still have not provided a sufficient answer to is, “Why wasn’t I invited to your wedding” upon seeing the wedding picture hanging on the wall adjacent to my wedding invitation in my bedroom. The answer that I have been running with is, “Well, peanut, (my endearing nickname for my daughter) you were not invited because you were not born when Daddy and I got married.” Peanut always poses this question as though she is thoroughly insulted that she did not get the invitation. I am convinced she is certain that we had her babysitter come to watch her the day of the wedding.

Frequently, I smirk because the questions are clever and humorous to me, because I can just imagine the gears in my daughter’s mind turning. Many things that come out of my daughter’s mouth are funny. Her responses to questions and her bold statements are hysterical, (or wysterical, which is the way she pronounces the word) Dinnertime excuses to get out of eating dinner are plentiful. Vegetables or anything non-desirable to my Daughter’s palate are said to be “Not good for Hailey.” If she does not like the way something tastes it is immediately described as, “Too spicy,” Once, she got some salt water in her mouth at the beach and it was instantly, “Too spicy.”The funniest dinner avoidance reason came about two nights ago when she argued”, I cannot eat this hot dog because it tastes like salad. My husband pointed out that my Daughter, having never eaten salad, by her choice and therefore, would not know what salad tasted like.

While we are on the subject of food, yesterday, I was confided by my little girl that my dog needed a bath tomorrow because he smells like fish-sticks. My poor dog apparently smells like Gorton’s. The fact is the dog does need a bath but fish-sticks seem like a little bit of an excessive description.

Any slang, cuss word or expression of my frustration on my part inevitably comes back to haunt me because my child is a parrot. Not only does she repeat things but she applies them correctly to a given circumstance. Muttering under my breath, “Go bleep yourself” at someone that cuts me off while driving with two children in the car resurfaced. My husband was summoned into the kitchen because Hailey and I were making cupcakes and she wanted him to see dessert. Simultaneously, our dog decided he wanted attention and began barking in a boisterous fashion. My daughter turned around, kneeling on a chair and proclaimed, “Go Bleep yourself Fred” in the direction of our dog. My husband and I did our best to guise our laughter at the fact that she had applied the curse word correctly in a sentence. Immediately, I started to feel like a failure as a parent because my momentary lapse in judgment and potty mouth are now mirrored back to me by my child. If someone cuts me off again in the car, I am unable to say with certainty that I will refrain from spewing curses under my breath. Indiscretions like this are sometimes as involuntary as breathing for an adult.

The days seem long and monotonous for us right now from my perspective as a stay at home Mom. From the perspective of my Daughter I am certain her endless questions and regular dinnertime protests seem like a way to pass the quick days in fun fashion. I am well aware that Peanut has no concept of time or date at this point. Tomorrow, to my Daughter is known as, “in the other morning.” Anything that I earmark as a longtime from now, say three months is noted to be, “in two days.” The concept that Christmas is nearly four months off is irrelevant, the questions about presents and why we don’t have tree right now seem to persist. (-even after I reiterate that Christmas is a long time from now)

To me, she will always be my baby and I will continue to answer the endless questions and listen intently to the words which come out of her mouth. It comes with the territory of being a Mom. But, I will have you know that according to my Hailey, she is no one’s baby, she is a big sister.