THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, February 19, 1995 TAG: 9502160046
SECTION: REAL LIFE PAGE: K1 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: HE SAID, SHE SAID
SOURCE: KERRY DOUGHERTY & DAVE ADDIS
LENGTH: Long : 116 lines
DAVE SAYS:
I nearly killed myself paying a department store bill the other day.
It wasn't the balance, which was small compared to my other credit cards. Stroking the check was easy, even though most newspaper wage slaves have more cash in our couch cushions than in our bank accounts.
No, I nearly canceled my own ticket because I was dumb enough to lick the gummed seal on the back of an envelope that had been dipped in enough perfume to frighten a Brooklyn streetwalker.
This is the department store that sends its bills out in the burgundy-on-white envelopes - heck, you know who I'm talking about.
When I licked that envelope, my tongue swelled and my lips puckered and I started to show symptoms that I'd read about in Ty Cobb's biography, when he talked about surviving a mustard-gas attack in World War I.
Panicked, I couldn't remember the antidote. I threw a bowl of ice cubes into the sink and dunked my head in them. When I came up for air, I grabbed a jug of cabernet sauvignon from the drainboard and gulped it down to the middle of the label. I think that's how Cobb survived, but I'm not sure.
Anyway, Kerry, I have to ask you, why must every magazine and every piece of junk mail that might be touched by a woman be drenched in enough cologne to paralyze a pack of bloodhounds?
I'll confess that from a purely aesthetic standpoint, the ads smell wonderful. And when used modestly, the scents are terrific on women. But something about the way I was raised, the way men are taught to be men, tells me that I shouldn't have Chanel No. 5 clinging to my clothing after paying the bills or emptying the mailbox.
I can tell the difference between Old Spice and Chanel, but it's impossible for me to describe that difference. It's even tougher to describe why I don't mind the barber splashing after-shave on my face, but I can't wash that perfume off fast enough if I accidentally rub up against it in a magazine.
Do women really buy perfume this way? Do y'all really say to yourselves, ``Oh, my, what I wouldn't give if I could get my body to smell just like this rumpled magazine?''
Guys don't fall for that stuff. If they did, Popular Mechanics would smell like a can of WD-40 and they'd be dipping Sports Illustrated in a keg of Schlitz before putting it in the mail.
I have a permanently fractured nose and a 30-a-day Marlboro habit, so I'm not particularly sensitive to odors. But the day is coming when I'll need a pair of rubber gloves to check my mailbox.
Is there any defense against this, Kerry? Or is this one of those feminine mystique things that I'm just going to have to adjust to?
KERRY SAYS...
Get used to it, Dave. As a matter of fact some of us enjoy the scented magazines. And the bills - it's the only thing that makes them the least bit appealing. Actually, I wish MasterCard would add a whiff of lilac to take the chill off its bill.
Unless you have a phobia about paper cuts, it's a great way to experiment with perfumes in the privacy of your home. It also beats being ambushed by the army of perky sales clerks who lurk around the department stores, hoping to hose you down with the latest scent.
Having perfume samples in magazines lets you try a new perfume when you're not already wearing Giorgio. And if it's ghastly, you can jump in the shower and scrub it off.
Face it, scents mean different things to men and women. Guys don't care if they smell like pistachio nuts or WD-40. Most men think they smell great when they've slapped on some Old Spice their father got for Christmas in 1955.
To women it's scent. To men it's odor.
Women like to use perfume to set a mood, even around the house. We'll use it quietly, like sensory background music. Flowery, sweet scents suggest spring even on the coldest winter day, while spicy warm scents are romantic and intriguing. And we wish you'd notice from time to time.
For years, while my husband and I were dating, I would dab perfume on the lightbulbs in my tiny beach apartment. Why? I'd read in Cosmopolitan that dousing the bulbs would imprint my ``signature fragrance'' in his mind. You know, ``I can't seem to forget you, your Windsong stays on my mind.'' or something like that.
It was working until a light burned out and my future husband went to change it. He pulled off the shade and recoiled in horror.
``What's all over this bulb?'' he screamed, studying the brown film. ``Gross. It smells like perfume.''
Now I confine perfume to pulse points.
And I have an array of bottles on my dresser. I never know which one I'll wear. But at $100 an ounce for some of the high-end scents, I'll take any kind of free sample the manufacturer wants to send my way, including a saturated piece of paper in a magazine.
I can chronicle my life by fragrances. There were the Canoe, Tabu and Ambush years. Then Charlie. White Shoulders came next, followed by a brief flirtation with Shalimar. This week it's Carolina Herrara.
But when I curl up with a slick magazine, I'm usually dressed in a sweat suit and thick crew socks. The exotic fragrances wafting from the pages help take me away from the world of laundry and skinned knees and spilled apple juice, to a place where women are mysterious and beautiful.
But if that isn't a good enough reason for you, Dave, how about a few helpful hints to use perfume samples to improve your life:
Open them and tuck them in your drawers. Your socks will thank you.
Stuff a few in your car ashtray to neutralize that Marlboro stench.
Rip them into little pieces and drop them down the garbage disposal to rid your kitchen of that mysterious mix of Dinty Moore and day-old tacos.
Or, just toss them in the garbage. That way, your trash will smell better than that Brooklyn streetwalker. MEMO: Kerry Dougherty can be reached at 446-2302. Dave Addis can be reached at
446-2588, or by e-mail at addis(AT)infi.net. ILLUSTRATION: Photos
Face it, scents mean different things to men and women. To women
it's scent. To men it's odor. (And for these two models, it's a
paycheck.)
by CNB