Aight.
So. Two things I did recently that I’d like to discuss include the following:
1. Went to
a Salt N Pepa show at a sketchy venue
2. Went to
try to buy fancy lady perfume at an upscale cosmetics store
Things I
learned:
1. I am too
old to be up until 4am
2. Smelling
good is waaaayyyyy to complicated
Recommendations
I have for the host establishments of said activities:
1. Consider
the demographics of your crowd when scheduling a show
2. Two
words: fewer choices
These
activities are clearly unrelated. Nearly opposite, in fact. I know that. Do I
care enough to give them separate entries? Nope. They have a similar theme in the end. Sort of.
Let’s
begin with the show, shall we? For anyone who doesn’t know, Salt N Pepa is an
old *skool* hip hop girl group from the 80’s, made popular by such supahfly
hits as “Push It”, “Shoop”, and “Whatta Man”. While both women are in their
mid-to-late forties now, they sound just like they did on the original
recordings and still have some moves…or at least a lot of energy. They look
pretty good too (Salt is stacked).
The awkward aspect of the performance for me was that they had some handsome dancing
boys that were probably half their age, acting out cheesy narratives to their
sex-themed songs (including, of course, the hit “Let’s Talk About Sex”). With them. Acting out cheesy sexy
narratives with them. I’m not hating on the cougar thing (good for you if you
can pull that off), but Salt N Pepa’s kids are probably older than their
dancers and the mommyprude in me got a tad squeamish. But more than that it was
funny. And more than that, it was fun. I love me a good sing along.
But
moving on to the recommendation mentioned above. One would think that the
average age of an S&P fan to be at least 35. Maybe more like 45. While we
observed a wide range of ages at the show, we were definitely among the
youngest (which was refreshing). But think about it. People our age and up don’t
typically party all night. We often have jobs and kids and babysitters to
get home to and things to get up and do in the morning. We want to go home and
go to bed and would prefer to be at least somewhat functional tomorrow. Maybe I am being
a total square here, but I was perturbed to discover that the headliner
(S&P) didn’t even come onstage until after 1am. 1:00am! And since they obviously aren’t 21 either and wanted to go to
bed just like the rest of us, they only played for thirty minutes, max.
The
doors opened at 8. E-i-g-h-t. That’s FIVE hours of openers. Being the
fashionably late hipsters that we are, we arrived closer to 11pm (yawning all
the while on the train ride over and bemoaning the fact that we were usually in
bed by now), and only had to endure two or three hours of filler. Not to say
all the openers sucked, but we got real tired of being told “When I say hell,
you say yeah!” over and over again. I’ll say whatever I feel like saying, thank
you very much. And of course there’s the incessant “Put your hands up!” and
“Somebody screeaaaaam!” They’re so damn bossy.
I
especially enjoyed how some of them seemed like insecure teenagers who want to
prove their coolness by bragging about their drug and alcohol use. Hey guy,
you’re 38. You don’t need to keep telling us on repeat that you “like to get
high like you like to get drunk”. It’s unbecoming of a gentleman your age. Plus
they kept asserting the fact “This is real hip-hop!” And there we were,
thinking it was faux. Good thing they gave us that constant reminder. As if the
smoke and booze saturated environment throbbing with thunderous bass beats
didn’t keep us aware of all these fun facts.
Entertaining
side notes:
1. The
bathroom graffiti of the ghetto dive was filled with positive affirmations
about love and beauty.
2. While I
was sad not to be able to enjoy a beer, I took advantage of being pregnant in
order to steal one of the few highly coveted chairs in the area to get off my
feet.
3. The huge
ad banners for a particular brand of rum failed to recognize the irony of
showcasing the name “YOLO” right next to “gluten-free”.
4. There
was an awesome older gentleman (sixties?) who danced onstage to “Whatta Man”
like a champ and then later gave us hugs and asked us if he had properly
“represented Denver”.
But I
digress. I recommend this venue considers the demographic of the audience, and
tries to get the headliner on at a more reasonable hour for us old timers. By
the time the show ended and we finally managed to hail a cab (after jogging
upstream to beat the others) to get back to the apartment where my car was and
then I drove myself an hour home (don’t fret I obviously wasn’t drinking)
because I had to get back for the freaking babysitter…yeah, 4am. I had a
no-sleep hangover because guess who didn’t want to sleep in all day? My children. They were bright-eyed and
bushy-tailed (i.e. loud and hyper and demanding as frick) right on schedule, at
7am. I allowed myself slightly more coffee that day.
Story #2
takes place in an entirely different part of town with an entirely different crowd. And I was no longer sporting a man tank
that read “P-P-P-PUSH IT REAL GOOD”. I was in my “nice” clothes for work though—meaning
I’d actually changed out of the yoga pants—and still felt a little schlubby at
the swanky mall that housed the cosmetics store where I had a gift card meant
for perfume. After circling the parking lot for a good long while like a
vulture with the hordes of other parking spot-less cars, I managed to find my
way into the makeup store and was immediately approached by a super chic,
polished clerk offering her assistance.
“I have
this gift card and I’m not sure how much it’s for and I need to get perfume but
I don’t know how because that massive wall of perfumes is scary and
overwhelming.” I blurted instantly. She pawned me off on someone else and ran
away before I knew what was happening. A fragrance expert, apparently. As I
imagined and dreaded, her first question (a totally reasonable one) was “what
do you like?” I don’t know. I’ve been using the same perfume since I was 15,
and only occasionally, cuz I’m not a real perfumey sort. I only recently
decided that perhaps since my age has doubled and I don't shower often enough I ought to try something else.
She got
out a can of coffee beans in a special metal jar with a parmesan cheese style
lid, meant to cleanse the nasal palette between sniffs. Then she started
suggesting fragrances based solely on my unsure remark that I don’t love overly
floral ones. She would offer her carefully selected product, describing the
subtle notes with impressive detail and then step back to thoughtfully observe
my sniffing. I’d take several long, deep whiffs and stare meditatively at the
ceiling…then shrug. Even my pregnancy-heightened sense of smell could not
detect all the subtleties or differences in these perfumes. All I could say was
“This one’s alright, that one’s too flowery, this one smells like a grandma,
that one is weird, this one’s kinna fruity.” I could not distinguish the “fresh top notes of mandarin, lychee, and
bergamot playing softly against the sweet innocence of lily of the valley”
or the “elegance of madonna lily and the
heady opulence of Indian tuberose, blended with velvety jasmine and
addictively sweet plum nectar”. (WTF is lychee and bergamot and tuberose anyway? I linked wikipedia for ya.)
I got
super light-headed just from the nonstop inhalation. Too many long breaths in.
And they all started smelling the same, despite the coffee huffing. I guess I lack a discriminating sniffer. Still, I
was there for almost an hour. There were hundreds…seriously an unending wall,
floor to ceiling…HOW does anyone choose? How?!
One of
my favorite things about the fancy perfume industry is the *literature*. As if the ads and commercials aren't abstract and wacked out enough. I freaking
love reading the over-the-top descriptions. Seriously, look them up and read
some just for kicks. For example, one Dolce and Gabbana scent is written up as a
“deeply feminine blend of luxurious
ingredients as potent and captivating as the emotion of desire itself, which
leads us on a journey of opulent seduction”. What the what? A Calvin Klein
fragrance tells me that if I wear their perfume I will become “every man's fantasy”, while Dior tells me that I’ll be a “daringly sexy woman”. One of Armani’s
scents just sounds delicious: “zesty
blood orange, ginger, and pear sorbet softened with hints of sambac jasmine,
orange blossom, and lavender honey, warmed with precious woods and vanilla”.
Even the
names of the fragrances are enough to get me giggling, although the
professionals aren’t nearly as tickled. Evidently I am drawn to the ones with
the silliest labels, like “Hypnotic
Poison” and “Forbidden Euphoria”,
fragrances that “ignite the senses”
or “evoke long-forgotten memories and
incite deep passion”. I kept reading everything aloud and guffawing, while
the clerk just smiled politely.
To her credit,
she was very patient with the cosmetics Philistine that I am and ended up
giving me a bunch of samples to take home. It’s just as impossible to pick even
when there’s just six options. I feel like it’s a big commitment.
Sexy or
tasty, all my new perfume options vary greatly from my daily essence au natural,
which might be described as “a stunning
perfume, overwhelming and irresistible like the joy of living in the inescapable
prison that is motherhood. The scent is surprisingly colored with the
liveliness of reworn clothing, the happiness of dog, and the spontaneity of poop.
Familiar and resolute notes are expressed with the intensity of watermelon
children’s toothpaste, the freshness of Secret Outlast deoderant, the charm of Febreeze,
and the spirit of microwaved day-old coffee. The deep and true base embodies
the character of skipped showers, the fullness of graham crackers, and the
embrace of alfalfa hay.”
If that doesn't make me every man's fantasy, I don't know what does. Any good
suggestions for the name of my signature fragrance?
If the story
of the Salt N Pepa show has any connection to the perfume story, despite the
polar opposite nature of their location, it’s their shared moral:
1. Being
young and energetic and hip is hard work
2. Being sophisticated
and decisive is hard work
3. Being young and energetic and hip and sophisticated and decisive is especially hard when you have two small children and are seven months pregnant, which cumulatively create an exhausted brainless slob.
I’d like
to close by thanking a recently married pal who granted me both opportunities to grow as a
person with such enriching experiences that got me outside my comfort zone and
gave me this blog fodder. I'd also like to thank the pal who demanded I try to write an ell oh ell blog. Hope this suffices. <3
