Well, we rotate some (ok, a lot!) of our fragrances annually. Some of our suppliers stop making seasonal ingredients, and also we get bored and need space in the lab for new things.
The intention here is to have an imperfect, constantly added-to list. I'm copying and pasting directly off of our shop notes to get the first big batch up and running. You'll notice that it isn't formatted perfectly, and there will be misspellings here and there. I had to either let my perfectionism go, or never, ever do it. It is here, and it is perfectly imperfect!
I've also included all of the stories, because they make me smile! It's a very long document, so I suggest you use CTRL+F or another search method of your choice to skip through to what you're looking for. Enjoy!
Scent Notes: wild rose, lavender fields, a spellbound forest at night, a sprig of rosemary, cedar, freshly ground clove, bergamot.
Scent Notes: white rose, white musk, white thyme, a summer rainstorm, neroli, gardenia, a perfectly ripe grapefruit, kumquat, orange blossom, neroli, red mandarin, fresh dalmatian sage.
Scent Notes: wild rose, cedarwood, smoke, leather.
Scent Notes: English rose, honey, sea salt, dragonsblood.
Scent Notes: wild rose, rich dark chocolate, fresh vanilla bean, burnt sugar, whiskey, bourbon, an old library in a dusty castle, patchouli, a cold creamsicle on a hot day, really good bacon.
Scent Notes: wild rose, English rose, white rose, woodsmoke, patchouli, dragonsblood, metallic copper, metal, smoky incense.
Scent notes: Tiny wild roses blooming on the forest floor, rich, spiced rosewood, vanilla laced with patchouli and sweet resins
Scent notes: Peaty oak moss, lemon verbena, frankincense, a double shot of good bourbon, smoky sandalwood
Scent notes: White thyme, freshly ground black pepper, black jasmine, amber
Scent notes: Rosemary, finely grated ginger, cedarwood, fresh mahogany, teak.
Scent notes: Smoky meat (mmm, bacon), campfire, sweet cherry tobacco.
Scent notes: Ancient incense burnt in a tomb of darkness; the blood of a hundred dragons; Bay Laurel; pure, raw honey.
Scent notes: Juniper sage, neroli, patchouli, cedar planks, saffron
Scent notes: Supple leather, smoky sandalwood.
Scent notes: Fresh orange, spicy cinnamon, white musk, and freshly ground nutmeg.
Scent notes: Pine needles, cedar planks, eucalyptus, mossy oak, fresh lemon verbena.
Scent notes: Animalistic musk, smoke, carrot seed oil, ancient incense, spicy cinnamon
THE MOON DOOR
Scent notes: A perfect pink orchid gleaming on a windowsill, a bouquet of lily of the valley, well-oiled rosewood chess pieces
Scent notes: Vanilla, juicy green fig, freshly tanned leather
Scent notes: Rich chocolate, patchouli, freshly whipped buttercream, peasant dirt.
Scent notes: Licorice, anise, smoky campfire, fresh cedarwood.
Scent notes: A thick cloud of Egyptian musk drifting from the stall of an outdoor market on an overcast afternoon. Coconut milk bought from a vendor hung with pikake flowers, as you rest in a field of sunflowers against an oak tree gazing at the bodies of your enemies.
MOTHER OF DRAGONS
Scent notes: Vanilla, desert spices, smoke, decadent leather
Scent notes: Rich, fluffy buttercream frosting, real vanilla, pure lemon
Scent notes: Lemon, fresh lemon verbena, fancy dark chocolate
Scent notes: Amber, a pint of oatmeal stout, pure golden honey
Scent notes: Champagne, peaches, cotton sheets, rose, pomegranate, sage, neroli
BRIENNE THE BEAUTY
Scent notes: Grass, white musk, lemon, ginger, white tea, Valencia orange
Scent notes: Ocean air, lemon and lime, thunderstorms, gloomy, rainy afternoons, tears
Scent notes: Greenery, oakmoss
Scent notes: Black tea, spices, lavender
THE NIGHT KING
Scent notes: Forest, sandalwood, incense, black musk
MISC. HOUSE SCENTS
Scent Notes: Swirls of absinthe and pipe tobacco, a drop of peppermint, base of warm amber and white musk and a light feminine touch of Egyptian geranium
Scent notes: freshly ground coffee (obviously), spicy black pepper, nutmeg, high octane fuel, vanilla bean, bacon sizzling on the stovetop.
You know what they say: don’t feed the trolls.
Scent notes: melted chocolate, toasted marshmallow, sweet honey graham cracker.
RAINBOW FOOTIE PAJAMAS
Scent notes: Froot loops (strawberry, blueberry, raspberry, cherry), extra sugary milk, vanilla, baby powder.
A delicious, warm pie. With melty vanilla ice cream and spices. Damn, math is awesome.
Yes, a pepperberry is a real fruit. It is native to Australia, specifically Tasmania, and the berries and leaves are used as spices because, true to name, it’s sweet and rather peppery and altogether unique. It’s the sweet-and-savory-pepper scent of your dreams that you didn’t even know you were dreaming about! You’ve never smelled anything like this before. We think you’re going to love it.
Scent notes: crisp winter evening air, frost, sweet sugar plums swirl with delicious marshmallow.
Scent notes: a hot piping glass of eggnog, spiked with the finest whiskey. A dash of vanilla and spices to finish
Scent notes: a big glass of merlot, cinnamon sticks, freshly grated nutmeg, cedarwood, pure honey, frankincense, myrrh, sweet sugar plums.
Scent notes: cedar, a cool stream in a dense forest, a sudden rainstorm, oakmoss, decaying wood.
Scent notes: an enormous blizzard on a cold winter’s night, a fireworks explosion.
A Very Boozy Christmas
This collection comes with a series of stories, each taking place on the same Christmas dinner from the perspective of each of the different family members.
Hot Buttered Rum
Scent notes: Hot buttered rum, bright oranges, spices
Scent notes: Irish cream, salted caramel, espresso
Scent notes: Rich hot cocoa with mountains of fluffy marshmallows and a touch of coconut cream pie, tempered with a touch of patchouli and incense
Scent notes: Amaretto, venilla cream, a sprinkle of nutmeg
Scent notes: Eggnog sprinkled with allspice, ginger, cardamom, and nutmeg
Scent notes: Rich chocolatey stout, a comfy flannel shirt, allspice, sandalwood, vanilla bean
Scent notes: Frangelico, butterscotch candies, black oud, amber
Scent notes: Red wine mulled with cinammon, oranges, brown sugar and pepper, grapefruit and cardamom, and a hint of bitter accord.
Scent notes: Absinthe, glowing red musk, bitter accord, myrrh, vetiver
SUC STORY SCENTS
You Caught Me Monologuing
“It’s really quite simple,” Captain Mansplain said. “I found your secret lair in the easiest way: you sent me a note to come here to, I believe you said, ‘Meet my doom.’” He made exaggerated air quotes as he said it, because of course he did. “Although I don’t believe you really meant that, and let me explain why.”
“No, that’s exactly what I--” Feminista started to say.
“You meant that you would try to kill me, but fail spectacularly, because many people have tried to kill me over the years. As you know, I have invincibility; nothing stops Captain Mansplain! At least, no woman stops me; I will absolutely listen to my fellow male superheroes when they speak, and I don’t seem to have any male villains.”
“That’s probably because everybody loves me except you women! Why do you hate me? This is obviously your own internalized misogyny coming out in the most tremendously spectacular way: pure hatred for me, Captain Mansplain, the smartest man alive. I’m invincible because I have a giant brain, you see. And that manifests in its ability to constantly regenerate my cells as needed.”
“That’s not--” Feminista tried to interject, to remind him that she was the “villain” here, but that was looking less like the case every second. What an incompetent “superhero.”
Captain Mansplain turned his back to Feminista.
“So, listen, just end your little feminist agenda here, and let me be on my way. I only showed up to tell you that you should invest in better stationary; if you’re going to be sending death threats, you could at least splurge on high-quality paper, maybe a new logo. I designed my own logo, you know, it really wasn’t hard. Just used Microsoft Paint and added a flourish to my initials. Of course, you can’t do that, that’s exactly what I did. Don’t copy me because you have no original ideas of your own.”
The whole time Captain Mansplain was monologuing, Feminista stood there rolling her eyes. Given that she was about a foot taller than the Captain, and much more muscular, with a bachelor’s degree in art and a real knack for cooking, she’d had about all she could stand. Plus, she’d spent all morning setting up an elaborate trap involving a large fire pit, throwing stars, and several bad-tempered ferrets.
Since he wasn’t paying attention anyway, she walked out of the room, grabbed a frying pan from the nearby kitchen, and smacked him in the back of the head with it while screaming, “SHUT. UP!”
Captain Mansplain was knocked out cold. “Thank god,” Feminista sighed. “I didn’t think he’d ever stop. Now I can be the one monologuing, you pompous, frittata-brained chode.” She whistled, and several of her assistants came in the room. “Let’s get this guy to the dungeon.”
Scent notes: a cauldron full of a dark, bubbling, poisonous liquid with a distinct animal musk note wafting from the fumes and simmering bubbles, oudh wood, spicy dragon’s blood.
It’s a Trap!
Captain Mansplain awoke in a dungeon he didn’t recognize, with a splitting headache. “This is definitely not my own personal dungeon, where I have absolutely never awoken after a rowdy night with a woman I most sincerely did not pay for who robbed me and locked me in my own dungeon. I’d recognize that place. This dungeon is most sincerely a foreign dungeon. Probably that rotten Feminista’s place. Ugh.”
His hands were shackled behind his back, in a most uncomfortable position. In reality, they were just gently behind him, but as an inflexible man in many ways, this simple act was agony. His cape billowed over his arms and was stuck underneath his butt and legs, so when he tried to stand up, he fell.
The woman watching him outside his cell laughed, openly, watching him trip. She had a guttural, intense laugh that reverberated out of his dungeon cell and throughout the whole subterranean level.
Captain Mansplain decided having a female guard was to his advantage, because he really was an idiot. This fact, however, had never deterred him nor stopped him from doing anything in the past. Rather, it propelled him forward into many stupid situations.
Rhonda, the “guard,” was a fledgling villain taking her turn down on dungeon guard duty. She could read minds, and therefore automatically knew his plans. Her powers didn’t matter in this case, though; it was pretty obvious to just about anyone that he would attempt to hit on her in order to get her keys and free himself from his cell.
“Why, miss, you are far too young and too gorgeous to be here working as a guard for these women! You’re nearly a 7 out of 10; you’d be a solid 7.5 if you lost about 10 pounds and thought about whitening your teeth, you know.”
Rhonda smiled at him, her left eye twitching. Dear god, he really meant that! Her bosses had warned her about the Captain before he had arrived, but nothing could have prepared her for… this guy. How was he a hero, exactly? Oh, right: a white heterosexual guy with an okay body and a huge ego. Right.
She kept smiling. “Why, thanks Captain. Why don’t we get you out of that cell and you can show me your superspeed.”
Captain Mansplain frowned. “I don’t have supe… ooooh. Yeah, okay, I’m into that.”
She let him out of his cell, the same unnerving smile plastered to her face.
Captain Mansplain burst out, exclaiming, “A-ha! I have tricked you, wench! You could never be a 7.5 without serious plastic surgery. And, also, I’m going to escape now.”
He ran down the hall, cape billowing behind him, to the only escape he saw: a door at the end of the hall. There was light spilling out beneath it! He was so close to escaping this wretched hellhole full of *shudder* women. He turned the knob; it was unlocked! Those stupid, stupid…
It was then that he realized that he’d walked straight into Feminista’s dining room, where several villainesses and villainesses-in-training were eating dinner (not sandwiches, he noted to himself).
Rhonda came up behind him and clapped him on the back, getting a big glimpse into that small brain.
“Yeah, you moron; it *was* a trap.”
Scent notes: a freshly baked vanilla cupcake topped with buttercream, and marzipan, sprinkled with burnt sugar and a small drizzle of honey, left on the countertop with a lovely note telling you to eat it, and you have no reason at all to suspect that it’s poisoned except for that slightly faint hint of wormwood coming through the sweetness but hey, someone needs to eat this delicious cupcake right? There’s no way this could end poorly.
Captain Mansplain found himself, once again, in a large room in Feminista’s evil hideout. The room was empty except for a large compressed air pipe about midway up the wall behind him. He suspected cameras must be mounted somewhere in the ceiling, although he didn’t see any.
Facing him was Feminista’s co-villain/life partner, Miss Ann Dree. He was about to go into his usual speech about how he’s morally opposed to gay people but you know, two chicks together is pretty hot, but Miss Ann Dree didn’t let him get a word out before she slapped him across the face. He took a step back, flabbergasted.
“I might not be able to read minds, Captain Mansplain, but I could just tell by the look on your face you were about to talk about how hot it is that Feminista and I are a couple, so don’t start.”
For once, Captain Mansplain didn’t have anything to stay. He just stood and stared at Miss Ann Dree for a moment.
Ann, for her part, took the moment to assess her opponent. His blue jumpsuit was too big everywhere except his midsection, where it was noticeably strained. His normal fedora had fallen off ages ago, but his blue satin cape embroidered with his initials CM and his catchphrase of “Well, Actually…” was tied around his neck. It was pretty obvious just from looking at the two of them who was the more competent and athletic of the two of them. Her leather and spandex outfit was not revealing, merely sexy, but she made sure her well-toned arms were always on display. She’d worked hard for these guns. And she would never wear a cape. She knew better.
All of Ann’s assessing took about 2 seconds, and she smiled at Captain Mansplain.
“Come on, big boy. Let’s fight.”
Now it was his turn to grin.
“Oh, I really don’t think you want that, Miss Ann. You see, I know karate. I never had formal training, but I taught myself, and I’m very good.”
Ann burst into a laugh so loud the air pipe reverberated the sound.
“I HAVE to see this; please, do me the honor of fighting me, a humble villainess who merely studied Krav Maga for 15 years and does Crossfit six times a week.” She batted her eyes, then roundhouse kicked him in the face.
Captain Mansplain yelled, and fell onto his back. Miss Ann Dree stood over him, still laughing.
“You will regret that decision, Miss Ann. Hiiii-yah!”
Captain Mansplain leapt to his feet. Well, more like gingerly sat up, bent his knees, fell forward, and eventually struggled back upright, slipping on his cape often. Huffing and puffing, he let out another high-pitched “Hiya!” while starting a series of complex arm movements that seemed to focus mainly on jutting his elbows in her general direction.
Ann couldn’t take her eyes off him. “What in the HELL are you DOING?”
“Karate, Miss Ann Dree!” he yelled while walking backwards and punching at the air emphatically. “Kah-rah-tay!” He was almost at the back wall, and was now throwing in a random kick to go with the punches and elbow jerks. As he readied himself to to run forward and deliver a rotating roundhouse kick to her head, he tripped on his cape and started to fall backwards yet again. Except this time his cape got caught in the air pipe, and sucked him up off his feet so that he was hanging a few inches off the floor, and would slowly choke to death.
Miss Ann Dree was in danger of choking to death, too, from laughter. “Oh my god, I wish there were cameras in here, I want everyone to see this! Hold on, hold on, I have to go, oh this is too fucking funny.”
She burst out of the room shrieking, and was back a few moments later with Feminista, Rhonda, and a few other ladies he didn’t recognize. They all saw him dangling there, and every single one started laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. Tears streamed down their faces; a few fell down on the floor.
“How the shit did he DO that?!”
“Didn’t we turn that pipe off so we’d stop sucking people up it?”
“Yes; it was far too messy. How is he UP there?”
Captain Mansplain, for his part, survived on very little oxygen flow to his brain under normal circumstances, so the whole slowly-choking-to-death thing didn’t bother him as much as the laughter.
“Could you all please stop laughing?” he coughed out at them.
“Yeah, no, sorry bud, we all have to leave now. Have fun … hanging out.”
And with that, they all burst into fresh peals of laughter and walked out of the room, leaving Captain Mansplain hanging.
Scent notes: Cedar logs burning in the great outdoors, smoky patchouli, Balsam of Peru (fancy, we know), a lavender grove on a perfect spring day, a sprinkle of anise.
We’re Really Not So Different, You and I
Captain Mansplain laid on his back on the floor of the empty room, trapped in Feminista’s evil hideout. Oh, the humanity. Maybe he really had come to this terrible place to die. Maybe this is what happens when you make yourself a superhero. Perhaps the world doesn’t *need* a Captain Mansplain. Maybe he really is a bad superhero.
Okay, maybe the typical superhero would have realized after less than two hours of slow choking while being caught in an air pipe that he could just untie the cape from his neck and free himself and, you know, not die. Perhaps he wasn’t the brightest of them all, but his intentions were good. Weren’t they?
“No, your intentions really AREN’T good, Captain. But you know that, don’t you?”
Feminista had snuck up on him. Okay, well, it was her lair and she had access to everything and all she’d done was walk in the door, but it still caught him by surprise. He probably would have heard her if he hadn’t been expressing all his interior thoughts and emotions out loud again.
“A-ha! Feminista! You’ve come back for me!”
She glanced down at him in surprise, after eyeing the cape that was still stuck in the pipe. “No dude, I did not come back for you. I invited you here to kill you. You’ve caused your own problems by just being a dingbat. Plus, you’re on *my* turf; I need this room back from you because we’re gonna set up a movie projector and watch Mean Girls while having a giant slumber party on the floor. I’ve got shit to do; you need to get gone right now.”
Captain Mansplain’s eyes widened in alarm. “But no, you can’t kill me!”
Feminista arched an eyebrow. “And why not?”
He smiled what he hoped was a charming smile. “Because we’re really not so different, you and I.”
Feminista gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes that lasted so long Captain Mansplain was about to joke that her face would get stuck like that if she didn’t stop. “Trust me, Captain, we’re incredibly different. To start with, I don’t monologue in front of people before I kill them. Second, I’m not actually a villain, you’re just a smarmy bastard who decided to hate me because I wouldn’t date you and therefore, I became your enemy. Honestly, I’m fine with that, but I’m just tired of your existence, and would like you to go ahead and die now.”
Captain Mansplain had been daydreaming, and glanced back over at Feminista. “What did you say? Sorry; I wasn’t paying attention. I generally don’t listen when you’re talking because it hardly seems worth it since you won’t date me because you’re Lebanese or whatever.”
That’s when her foot collided with his face.
Scent notes: a bottle of expensive Merlot, crisp Anjou pear, a ripe Valencia orange, tart lemon, juicy kumquat. Basically, really delicious sangria.
Captain Mansplain awoke, not for the first time, in Feminista’s secret island lair. Only this time, he was tied to a post that was hanging from the ceiling in a large room, completely unable to move. His mouth was shut with duct tape, and he could tell that the side of his face was bruised and aching. The metal floor felt hot beneath his feet, and it appeared that the floor could slide apart, like so many evil villain’s lair floors are wont to do. (Who makes slidable floors? He wondered to himself. Is that a good business to get into? Maybe I should try that. I wonder if I could wear a cape on the job?) He would have expressed his thoughts aloud, and indeed he was trying to, but the duct tape made it impossible to talk, so he was mostly chewing on it.
Feminista and Miss Ann Dree walked into the room. As the captain chewed viciously on the duct tape, thinking maybe they could hear him better if he just yelled/chewed harder, they just started laughing at him.
“No time for monologuing, Captain,” Miss Ann said.
“Correct. It’s time for you to die,” Feminista said. “You see, I planned out a long, elaborate death for you, involving this room with the movable floor, which naturally has a large fire burning underneath. My plan had been to tie you to this post, let some rabid ferrets attack you for a while, then slowly roast you over the floor fire. But, as always, the best laid plans of mice and men…”
“Often involve cheese?” Captain Mansplain tried to say, succeeding only in getting his tongue officially stuck to the duct tape.
“Basically, I’ve had a slight change of heart,” Feminista continued. “Mansplainers are never a real threat to us, and you are hardly a superhero, and not worth the time. Instead, Miss Ann Dree and I are going to read from bell hooks’ book, Feminism is for Everybody, to you over our loudspeaker until you can let yourself down. You’re only about a foot off the ground, and your hands aren’t even bound tightly. You’ve broken in and let yourself out of this lair before; the exits are clearly lit along the way out for you. I’m sure we’ll see you soon.” And they turned and walked out of the room.
Captain Mansplain started to scream through the duct tape. He’d rather be ravaged by rabid ferrets than listen to feminist theory for one minute. This was a fate worse than death, surely. Were his hands really not tightly bound? Over the loudspeaker, he heard, “Feminism is for Everybody, by bell hooks,” and promptly passed out.
Scent notes: Intense ambergris, freshly ground cardamom pods, molten honey, cocoa absolute, benzoin tree resin. (Note: if you get this scent as a perfume oil, some separation may occur; that’s perfectly natural!)
1-Up is our ode to classic video games and the 8-bit world we kind of wish we could inhabit. Those were simpler times, and simpler games: you could travel through tubes and jump and land on enemies to kill them; if you were shooting anything, it was a cloud or a duck (with a bright orange gun!); and a broken heart could be fixed with a potion you acquired from some random guy selling things in a hut in the middle of nowhere. Think of this scent as that magic potion, or in adult terms, a grapefruit bellini: sharp citrus, delicious bubbly, with a hint of sugar. Plus extra sweetness from pumpkin and Bartlett pair, with a tiny bit of lavender for a nice bit of floral. Because if we can’t actually live in an 8-bit world, we can drink until we feel like we do.
Scent notes: fresh grapefruit, a big glass of champagne, sweet pumpkin, freshly washed and starched sheets, a crisp Bartlett pear, a sprig of fresh lavender.
We all love pie. And Pi. So on Pi Day 2019, we figured it was only right to celebrate with this new scent! Yes, it’s like warm apple pie with melty vanilla ice cream. What could be more American than that? Whether you celebrate today because you love physics or because you love dessert, we can all agree that today is worth celebrating. So put on every pie episode of Great British Bake Off, eat a piece of pie, attempt to memorize as many numbers of Pi as you can (we’re up to 24), and order a bottle of this nerdy new scent.
Scent notes: freshly picked apples from one of those hipster apple orchards where everyone goes to wear flannel, beanies, and pick gigantic bushels of apples and take a ton of pictures for Instagram, except the apples are actually delicious and worth it, And those apples are in a pie. A delicious, warm pie. With melty vanilla ice cream and spices. Damn, math is awesome.
Dr. Fantastic Scent Names:
Well what have we here? A seeker, searching for answers, hoping to find what they’re looking for in this side alley; drawn in by the scents wafting from the caravan, and my calling to the open air: “Come one, come all! Are you in the market for cures to your ailments? Do you need a magical all-in-one treatment? Look no more!” Yes, indeed, we have just what you need. No matter what you’re trying to fix, Dr. Fantastic has the cure! Come, come, it’s a new year, we know you have goals and dreams. We can help you achieve everything your heart desires. Take a sniff of this, no, try this; heck, try them all! We’ve got five amazing options to choose from, guaranteed to cure every ailment, ache, pain, or household cleaning problem you’ve got. Nothing is too tough for Dr. Fantastic!
Snake Oil! Cures warts, headaches, blisters, popcorn lung, cysts, bloody noses, unruly children, dirty floors, grease burns, hangnails, split ends, cottonmouth, dry skin, toothache, and swollen tonsils instantaneously!
Scent notes: fresh bamboo, sweet yuzu, an old, dusty library, exotic spices from Zanzibar, smoky nag champa, ylang ylang.
All-Natural Magical Health Restorative!
Relieves athlete’s foot, intense body odor, migraines, tendinitis, sinusitis, osteoarthritis, conjunctivitis, perichondritis, bowel upset, and hairballs (in cats and humans alike!).
Scent notes: white musk, rosemary, fresh-picked lavender, pine needles, cedarwood, bay laurel.
Majestic Miracle Tonic!
For treatment of consumption, the spins, addiction, cholera, food poisoning, mother-in-laws, chicken pox, pneumonia, scarlet fever, yellow fever, and typhoid fever. Also works as a Love Potion and bathroom cleaner!
Scent notes: three types of sage: blackberry, dalmatian, and juniper, cactus flower, high octane gasoline, musty white musk.
Fast-acting for even the toughest of problems: gout, diabetes, Alzheimer's, impetigo, lethargy, arthritis, low cholesterol, high cholesterol, no cholesterol, pink eye, side-eye, dry eye, UTI, and chicken that won’t fry!
Scent notes: real Kentucky bourbon, bay rum, pipe tobacco, bay leaf, Turkish mocha, lumps of coal.
Dr. Fantastic’s Perfect Solution!
The cure to everything else, the mixture you just can’t live without, the one that relieves blindness, dementia, malaria, amputation, hearing loss, leprosy, heart attack, perhaps even death itself. It’s just that powerful!
Scent notes: a bottle of delicious merlot, freshly squeezed lime, a clover field, aloe, metallic copper, stormy midnight ocean water.
He's the anti-Saint Nick, the demon who appears and brings nothing but coal to the naughty children of the world. His horns are pronounced, and he’ll whip you into being nice if you’ve been naughty all year, whether you like it or not (he prefers if you don’t). That’s right: Krampus is here. He's devilishly dark and delightful, with a scent to match: sweet vanilla tempered with classic Christmas spices like nutmeg and cinnamon, for a good kick of spicy delight. But you have nothing to fear; Krampus won’t hurt you. Unless you deserve it. *cracks whip*
Scent notes: real Tahitian vanilla, freshly ground nutmeg, Christmas spice
His clothes are tattered, torn, and dirty. The furs he wears for warmth are matted, and reek of death. The bells on his bearskin cap jingle in the most threatening manner. Belsnickel has arrived. The children of the town are both delighted and terrified; they know they may get presents, or they may get the switch. They may even get both at the same time, depending on his mood, or if they appear too excited for gifts. The best plan was to be cautiously optimistic. Belsnickel smirks as if he can hear the collective thoughts of a hundred children, and walks up the driveway to the first house. What’s to happen? Even he doesn’t know. He feels the weight of the goodies in the sack in his left hand, and casually flicks the air with the switch in his right hand, taking a deep breath in of the crisp night air. Well, he thinks, it’s not really up to me what happens. Let’s see how the children behave. And with that thought, he quietly opens the front door.
Scent notes: Burnt sugar, a shot of espresso, juniper berry.
High up in the mountains in her isolated hut, Gryla waits, constantly sniffing the air. She only emerges during winter to hunt for her prey, even though she’s been able to smell it all year. The scent of bad children constantly fills her nostrils, never waning, only increasing as the year goes on. When she finally can’t stand it anymore, she leaves her house and prowls the nearby villages, picking off the most rotten children and taking them back with her so she can make her favorite food: Child Chowder. There’s always plenty of naughty children to choose from, and she can never eat enough of her stew. This is why you must be nice, otherwise Gryla will pluck you from your bed like a chicken and turn you into soup. Better not risk it, and wear this sweet scent to throw off her nose. She can’t smell all your evil deeds if she can only smell vanilla with a hint of black pepper, right?
Scent notes: fresh vanilla bean, real Tahitian vanilla, spicy black pepper
He tugs on his long, scraggly beard with his free hand, smiling to himself, thinking of all the boys and girls on the naughty list who need to be taught a lesson. Nothing like some good ol’ corporeal punishment for minor misdeeds, right? He looks over at his companion, St. Nicholas, who gets to give toys to all the good children. Booooor-ing. La Pere Fouettard doesn't have time for good children; he finds his joy in the punishment, with the whip in his hand and the empty cage on his back. Sure, it's empty now, but with all the kids on the naughty list, it sure won't be vacant for long. He smiles to himself. Being the bad guy is way, way more fun.
Scent notes: a freshly picked bright red rose, vanilla bean, valencia orange, Tahitian vanilla.
She walks into the house, acutely aware of the stench of unwashed dishes, even with the smell of mint hanging in the air. She sighs, noting the abandoned pile of weaving in the corner, the amount of dust and dirt everywhere, and the lack of a proper bowl of porridge left out for her arrival. Will people never learn to take her seriously? Her rags sweep along the floor, clearing a path in her wake. She walks to the bedroom, and slowly opens the door. The husband and wife are asleep, dreaming of the elaborate meal they’d prepared for dinner. Suddenly, they awaken with sharp stomach pain. “It's her! It's the Witch!” the wife screams before looking down at the gash across her stomach, bits of straw poking out of the wound. The witch, Frau Perchta, is holding the wife’s stomach in her hand. “So, do you believe in me yet?” she asks, smiling, before cackling hysterically.
Scent notes: sweetgrass, freshly cut grass, basil, peppermint.
You come in from the cold, ready for something warm to put a fire in your heart and belly. Yes, winter is long; the dark is deep, the nights seem endless, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. You’re craving something sweet, with a bit of a kick, that will fill you up with cheer and booze. (Although, those are sometimes the same thing.) Ah, yes, a piping hot mug of eggnog, complete with a generous shot of whiskey. That’s the ticket. This scent is the delicious flavors of spiked eggnog in a wearable, nonalcoholic version that will still put a smile on your face and a warm feeling in your chest.
Scent notes: a hot piping glass of eggnog, spiked with the finest whiskey.
The winter solstice is nearly upon us, so let’s celebrate with this scent designed with the darkest day in mind. This blend is mulled wine, aka the best winter drink, in a bottle. Notes of decadent red wine and mulling spices with a hint of sweetness will relax you and soothe your mood no matter how dark it is outside. There’s always time for a cocktail.
Scent notes: a big glass of merlot, cinnamon sticks, freshly grated nutmeg, cedarwood, pure honey, frankincense, myrrh, sweet sugar plums.
Traipsing through the woods always brings you peace, no matter the time of year. This scent is all the lovely parts of a crisp walk through the forest: cedar, oakmoss, rain, the sweet smell of decay… mmm, isn’t it lovely? The most wonderful time of the year, indeed.
Scent notes: cedar, a cool stream in a dense forest, a sudden rainstorm, oakmoss, decaying wood.
You awake in the night, suddenly unable to sleep a moment longer. The world is alive, and so are you. Outside, the snow is falling heavily but beautifully; it’s like living in a real snow globe. How lucky are you, to be awake and see this gorgeous display you could have slept through like everyone else?
Scent notes: an enormous blizzard on a cold winter’s night, a fireworks explosion.
Darkness be damned; you refuse to let long evenings stand in the way of a brisk, wonderful walk through the neighborhood. Look at all the lights! Look at that MOON! Take a deep breath of the crisp, fresh air. Let the notes of neighbors baking delicious treats fill your nose. Take off your mittens and catch a beautiful snowflake floating delicately down from the dark, starlit sky. Life is good. Now put your mittens back on; it’s cold! Nobody needs frostbite this year (or any time, really).
Scent notes: crisp winter evening air, frost, sweet sugar plum, delicious marshmallow.
Deep in the ocean, many leagues below the surface, your submarine silently glides under full power. The waters are dank and pitch-black. There are no technicolor fish swimming past, no beautiful coral shining up from the deep. It's hard to see, and there's a powerful sense of dread clinging in the stale air.
“Chief, isn’t this where they've seen… you know? The monster?” You scoff and walk away, but the pit of your stomach sinks. Your hands shake as you pour from the autopercolating samovar, hoping a hot drink will calm your nerves. It is, indeed, where The Kraken is said to lie in wait. Your steampunk vessel is a wonder of innovation, a truly modern marvel full of gears and incredible technology, and it will be your head if it’s lost at sea. You also sincerely don't want to be swept into a whirlpool, nor do you want to die being crushed by a giant tentacle. You give orders to surface, out of the deep, to flee from the threat you feel lying in wait. But it can't be true; it's an old sailor’s tale, a fiction, not at all possible.
As the submarine starts to surface, slowly, you feel the floor begin to quake beneath your feet. Oh no, no, it can't be. You run to a tiny porthole, surveying the water. It's so dark, it's almost impossible to see. Yet you can just make out, yes, there, far out but getting closer… the largest tentacle you've ever seen, somehow glimmering in the minimal light. And another. And another. The Kraken approaches.
You race down corridors, the photon globes overhead starting to flicker with the power being directed away from the galvanic piles and to the steam-driven propellers. You slam into the engine room, turning every possible gear to make the boat surface faster, yelling at everyone aboard to get to their battle stations. You scream at the young ensign shoveling coal into the Pyroic Thermal Field Generator, telling him to work faster, as though his life depends on it. You turn gears upon gears that turn even more gears, inching you towards the safe surface of the water. The smell of metal fills your nostrils as the cryptothermal radiation chamber begins to melt down, and you pull the ultrahydraulic lever, your last attempt to rocket to the surface. And that's when the first tentacle wraps roughly around your boat, dragging you and your crew down into the depths, never to resurface.
Scent notes: murky deep ocean water, fresh sea moss, rich amber, metal
You walk through the Irish countryside, strolling aimlessly. My, what a fresh, brisk October afternoon it is! You wouldn’t call the day “sunny,” but it’s fairly temperate, all things considered. You begin walking up a steep hill. The grass is still dewy and a little slick, but it doesn’t take long to crest to the top. There, you see a small cemetary. Nothing fancy: no gates, no pillars, just a few rows of very old-looking tombstones. You pause to catch your breath from the climbing, and decide to wander through amongst the headstones. Why not? Quaint cemeteries are the perfect places to spend an autumn afternoon.
You stroll along casually, reading the names of those who died hundreds of years ago; many of them are around your age, you notice. Thank goodness for modern medicine! Towards the back, there’s something that looks a bit out of place: an ornate mausoleum. You’re drawn to it; you can’t explain it. It’s getting to be evening and you should really go home, but it’s calling to you. You start walking towards it. That’s when you notice a woman wearing a white dress and grey, dirty-looking cloak a few rows over. She’s bent over the grave, clearly distraught, holding a gorgeous bouquet of flowers. She looks almost bridal, if not for the very dirty cloak. You get a sense of something both clean and precise, and dirty and unsettling. You turn away and walk past her towards the mausoleum, trying to shield yourself to give her some privacy. This is a place of mourning, after all, and here you are traipsing about.
The door of the mausoleum is cracked open, and you decide to explore inside. There’s a flight of stairs down into the ground, towards the tombs. You proceed cautiously, step by step, and start to walk towards the closest tomb.
Suddenly, the woman is at the top of the stairs, crying harder than before.
“Miss? Are… are you okay?”
She continues sobbing as she quickly descends the steps, and inside the hallway it’s even louder than before. She looks straight into your eyes. She’s crying blood. It’s staining her face, and her dress, and leaving a trail behind her. You open your mouth to scream, but her sobbing becomes an unearthly wailing; a screeching so intense it seems like the mausoleum will crumble and crush you both inside. You back up as far as you can, running smack into the final tomb. You look up, and see it’s marked with your name. You turn back to face your doom. She’s screaming so loud you feel like you’ve gone deaf; you have to cover your ears, you crumple against the floor, your eyes are closed, you can feel her bloody tears dripping onto your face, and then, there’s nothing.
Scent notes: Burnt sugar; baby powder; nag champa; real ylang ylang; a perfect sunflower; palmarosa; fresh figs; a moonlit night; decadent pomegranate; metallic copper; white musk.
He sighs, looking up at the house. It’s been a long night of work, and he’s pretty worn out. Generally speaking, people don’t like it when he shows up, even if they know he’s coming soon. Greeting Death Himself is considered by many to be a less-than-joyous occasion. “I’m really not a bad guy,” he thinks. “I only do what needs to be done.” He hopes she’ll understand, and not hold this against him.
He walks up and opens the front door, remembering the first time someone asked him how he managed to get into their locked house. “I used a skeleton key,” he said, and has been using that line for centuries. Most people do not laugh, although he thinks they should because that’s a pretty solid crack, especially from Death. But, generally speaking, people aren’t usually laughing as they’re about to die. Not even if he makes a joke first.
The house smells like a mix of fresh laundry and years of delicious baking. It’s clear she’s had people to come in and help take care of the place, even as her health deteriorated. And, oddly enough, he notices that his natural aroma of dust and incense blends well with the scents around him. He feels like he’s at home.
Climbing the stairs to her bedroom, he notes the pictures on the wall: a faded, old wedding photograph; family photos; recent pictures of grandchildren in a digital frame at the top of the landing. Good. It’s always nice to find that the human has led a happy, full life.
He opens the bedroom door, and is surprised to see her awake in her bed, alone, calmly reading a Life magazine. The scent of vanilla washes over him.
“There you are! I’ve been waiting for you! Let’s get this over with.”
For once, Azrael is taken aback. She’s… fine with him being here? That can’t be right. She is 90; maybe she just can’t see him properly.
“You know who I am?”
“Yes, you are the Angel of Death, and I am ready to go.”
He walks up to her, slowly, and kneels beside the bed. He takes her hand.
“Are you sure that you’re okay? I am only here to help.”
“I know that,” she says. “I am in great pain. The cancer is everywhere, and my body is finished. I consider this a mercy, and I am thankful you are here.” She brings her other hand over to grip his with both of her small, frail hands.
“Okay. If you’re ready, let’s save you from your pain.”
“Wait. I have one question for you, please. I promise it’s important.”
He nods. “Of course. Ask me anything.”
She smiles. “Did you use a skeleton key to get in?”
Scent notes: An ancient, ethereal library lit by gaslight and glowing incense, frankincense and bay laurel, the simple cotton winding sheet of the dearly departed, swirls of vanilla and coal dust, old crumpled magazines; vanilla bean; coal dust; freshly-washed crisp cotton; bay laurel; ancient, smoky incense; frankincense.
“Now Timmy, you have to start cleaning up your room! If you don’t, the Hobgoblin will come into your room and steal your toys!”
Timmy rolls his eyes. He’s sitting on his bed, playing with toy cars, ignoring the sea of clothing and toys scattered all over his floor. His mother’s face is red; this is clearly not the first time she’s walked into his room to find the place a mess. At 10 years old, he should be able to clean up at least most of this stuff without an issue. And yet, that never seems to be the case.
“Don’t you roll your eyes at me, young man! Clean. Up. Your. Room!”
But he doesn’t. He continues to play with his cars. A few hours later, his mother makes him go to bed early, without supper, as punishment for his dirty room. As she turns out the lights, she tells him, “The Hobgoblin knows you’ve been bad. Watch out; he might come and take your toys tonight!” Timmy rolls his eyes, and drifts off to sleep. He’s surprisingly tired for only playing with his cars all day.
When he wakes up the next morning, his room is spotless. Somehow all of his laundry has been done and put away; the floors have been swept; his toys are stored. Even the sheets he’s been sleeping on are clean, and smell like a comforting blend of vanilla and ginger. How did this happen?! He runs around the room, checking out all the freshly cleaned corners. Then he realizes: his cars are gone. The Hobgoblin!!
Crying, he runs out of his room and to his parent’s bedroom. He throws open the door and crawls into bed beside his mother. “The Hobgoblin came! He cleaned my room; but he took my cars!”
His mother consoles him, holds him close to her. “I told you, darling. Will you keep your room clean, now?”
Timmy sniffles and snorts. “I will. I promise, I will.” She looks over at Timmy’s father, and gives him a wink. He smiles back. They both know that, of course, it wasn’t a Hobgoblin, it was them. They had cleaned his room and gotten rid of his toys as punishment.
Years go by. Timmy grows up into an exemplary young man. He’s clean, neat, and orderly; but he lives with a great fear of the Hobgoblin sneaking into his room in the night to rob him of what is most precious to him. That night 15 years ago has scarred him in a way his parents never suspected.
He’s 25 now, and seriously dating a wonderful woman, Sally. He asks her to move in. She accepts.
What he hadn’t realized is that Sally is a slob. He spends hours a day cleaning out of his own anxiety, and it puts a definite strain on their relationship. She tries to pick up some of the slack, but as a naturally untidy person living with someone who is obsessed with cleaning, it never seems to be enough. She has no idea what the source of his anxiety is, but she’s determined to either make him relax on the cleaning or end the relationship, because she just can’t continue living this way.
Timmy, meanwhile, has basically stopped sleeping. He’s constantly cleaning, terrified of the Hobgoblin getting into his house. “The only way to make sure we’re safe is to keep everything clean ALL THE TIME!” he yells as he does his seventh scrub of the bathroom floor for the day. He’s a demonic Danny Tanner; nothing can stop him from cleaning.
He walks into the bedroom to find that Sally has long gone to bed, and left both her dirty clothes from the day and a stack of clean clothing on the floor. Something inside Timmy snaps completely.
“The Hobgoblin! He’s here! He’s going to take her away! He’s going to take her!” Out of the corner of his eye, he swears he sees a small figure run down the hallway and into the kitchen. He gets a strong whiff of tobacco and wood, which seems to confirm his suspicion that the Hobgoblin has arrived.
Following the figure, he runs to the kitchen, but there’s nothing there. Timmy grabs a large butcher knife from the knife block, just as he sees the figure run out and back into the hall.
“Come back! Come back here; I see you!” he yells as he runs down the hall. The blur darts into the bedroom. No, no, he can’t take Sally!
By the time he gets to the bedroom, Sally is gone. The Hobgoblin is in her place in the bed, taunting Timmy. He’s dirty, filthy actually, and ruining the sheets. And where did he take Sally?!
“NO! I WILL NOT BE AFRAID OF YOU ANYMORE!” Timmy yells as he runs into the room, and brings his knife down directly through the Hobgoblin’s chest.
He only realizes the mistake he’s made when he hears Sally scream.
Scent notes: Oud wood, pipe tobacco, real vanilla, sandalwood, freshly cracked black pepper, finely grated ginger root.
Your plane touches down on a remote island in the South Pacific. Dammit, you’ve needed this vacation. And it doesn’t hurt that your sister decided to uproot her life and move here just under a year ago. Sure, she followed a man, and while that’s not your cup of tea and it has put some distance between the two of you both emotionally and physically, at least it means you get an amazing vacation spot to visit! Looking on the bright side, just like your therapist suggested. Two weeks visiting your little sis in the South Pacific. What could possibly go wrong? Plus, she asked you to come. She must want to see you and reconnect.
You make your way out of the airport, slightly disoriented, anxiety rising with every step. No, calm down; it’s your sister, you’ll be fine. You walk outside and smell the salty air. You see her pull up and run out of the car to hug you. She smells like tobacco and burnt sugar. The hug is a great gesture, but it does seem odd that she’s wearing long, dark robes. It’s the South Pacific! On an island! In summer! But rather than nitpick, you hop in the car to go see your sister’s new life.
“How was the flight?” she asks. She seems genuinely excited to see you.
“Very long, but no screaming infants, so I’ve had worse.”
“Oh, yeah, babies on flights are terrible. I’m glad you made it safe; I wanted you to make it here in one piece.” She smiles. Her face looks strangely frozen; the smile seems a bit vacant.
That’s an odd statement, and why does your face look so strange? You don’t say those things, of course. Instead you ask, “So how’s Paul?”
“He’s good! I’m sorry he couldn’t make it with me. I didn’t tell you yet, but, we’re having a group over tonight for a bit of a welcome party for you. I hope that’s okay!”
You’re slightly taken aback. You don’t particularly like Paul, or his shady-seeming friends, and the thought of a giant group get-together on the evening of your arrival seems a bit unnecessary. The pit of your stomach roils in anxiety.
“What was that noise?” your sister asks.
“Oh, just my stomach. Guess I’m a little hungry.”
“We will absolutely take care of you, don’t worry.”
You two lapse into silence for a while. This island isn’t very big; there’s no way this drive can be much longer. It’s dusk outside, and you appear to be driving further into jungle, away from civilization.
“Not to be a child, but, are we there yet?”
“Oh, we’re close; we’re very close.” She turns and gives you another strange, vacant smile. Her eyes look glassy. The hell is going on here?
She makes a sudden turn into a hidden drive, and you immediately notice a group of 50+ people standing in a field. There’s a large bonfire, and everyone is wearing robes just like the ones your sister is donning. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. Your anxiety is through the roof; you feel like you’re having a heart attack. You turn and yell at your sister.
“What are you doing? Why did you bring me here?! Is this a sick joke?!”
She smiles that disembodied smile. “No, sister. This is very serious. Anxiety is caused by our God; he lives under this island, under the sea. He’s coming back, and soon. He’s sleeping, surrounded by sunken cargo ships, and mountains of gold doubloons, the sickly sweet smell of decomposition is what he feeds upon. He won’t be sleeping for much longer. Join us.”
“And if I say no?” you ask, trying to back away, to get to the car, to escape this insanity. Suddenly, you’re grabbed by multiple arms; a gag is shoved in your mouth; a hood is slammed onto your head.
You hear your sister’s voice say, “Oh, I wasn’t asking you. I was telling you. You’re one of us now.”
Scent notes: crisp sea salt; tobacco leaf; burnt sugar; freshly poured pavement; carrot seed. (This is a challenging blend, with a few sour/unpleasant notes at first that dissipate to a strange, delightful blend of sweet and salty with a touch of rot. Not for the faint of heart!)
THE AWKWARD BANDITS: THE INCOMPETENT SUC GANG
Scent notes: so much blueberry (like Violet Beauregard levels of blueberry), freshly squeezed lemon, fancy Tahitian vanilla, a little bear jar of honey. Dave requested Snozberry, but that’s not a thing. Basically it smells like a blue Slurpee, but a really expensive, delicious blue Slurpee you’d have to pay a lot of money for (no more stealing!).
Scent notes: tuberose, white magnolia blossom, crisply folded cotton sheets, Egyptian musk, a freshly poured Hefeweizen beer in a frosty cold mug.
Scent notes: sweet salted caramel, almond, a freshly opened jar of pure Canadian maple butter, coconut milk.
Scent notes: juicy, plump strawberries, sweet hazelnut toffee, a fresh grass stain on the knee of your favorite pair of jeans, animalistic musk, the kind an animal gives off when it’s being threatened by someone wanting to throw down fisticuffs.
Scent notes: a spiky, juicy pineapple, a sprig of cilantro, freshly squeezed lime juice, passionfruit, mango. Think of the fanciest frozen daiquiri at your local hipster bar; that’s exactly what this blend smells like.
Scent Notes: A seaside quay on a windy day. Kelp, moss, and a hint of lime mingle with tobacco bay leaves. The metal of old boats and a hint of gunpowder linger on the salty breeze.
Scent notes: A very-not mainstream blend of peonies and chai. Ginger, honey, and white musk make something delicious and... You probably haven't heard of them.
Scent Notes: A tart lemon meringue with a touch of vanilla. And gunpower. Because of course.
Scent Notes: Gooseberry and lilacs, and a touch of honey
Scent notes: Blackcurrant jam with undertones of black tea and rosewood
Scent notes: Blueberry spice cake made with cardamom and a touch of coumarin, drizzled with brown sugar glaze
Scent notes: A bottle of old honeyed elderberry wine found in the cool corner of the cellar, with a whisper of the powdery soil from the earthen walls
Scent Notes: Wild huckleberries picked from a cedar forest in a misty, wet morning. Oakmoss, rain and cloudy skies
Scent notes: Fizzy gin cocktail with ginger ale, tonka, and tobacco flower
Scent notes: Raspberries in heavy cream with a dash of vanilla, cinnamon and cardamom
Scent notes: A dozen freshly-dipped dark chocolate coated strawberries on a golden platter, a crystal champagne flute filled with Dom Perignon resting beside them.
Scent notes: Three types of plums.
Scent notes: A blend of two variants of lemon verbena.
Scent notes: Cucumber and melon.
Scent notes: pear, fig, blueberry, ylang ylang.
Scent notes: grass, tangerine, neroli, jasmine, honeysuckle.
Scent notes: the spray of the ocean on your face on a cool summer morning, a ripe kumquat plucked straight off the tree, crisp cotton sheets drying on a line in a field full of daisies.
Scent notes: spring meadow, rain, summer storms.
Scent notes: Fresh, tart pineapple and red mandarin, tonka bean, and a touch of whipped cream.
Scent notes: Creamy coconutty suntan lotion, rich vanillas, and salty sea air.
Scent notes: Ruby red pomegranate seeds over vanilla ice cream
Scent Notes: Fresh acai berries covered in rich, dark chocolate. Fresh, cold rice milk and crisp white musk
Scent notes: Mangoes with fresh green galbanum and bright pink peppercorns. A whisper of cardamom and sea salt, served under black linen canopies.
Scent Notes: Fizzing fresh green limes, wild labadanum and tonka with champagne bubbles
Scent Notes: Creamy coconut, swirls of black musk and vanilla, fresh green petitgrain, island beach grasses, and a hint of ocean breeze
Scent Notes: Passionfruit, bright green tomato leaf, frangipani blooms and a pinch of heliotrope flower
Scent notes: Fresh, tangy apricots, fizzing bubbles, a dash of herbal sage
Scent Notes: Hot, crisp pear tart drizzled with caramel. Drowned in heavy cream spiced with cardamom, cinnamon, and a touch of vanilla.
Scent Notes: Warm late summer figs offered on a platter with warm honeycomb, almonds, coumarin, and sips of red wine. Healthy. This is healthy.
How does one acquire a “beach body”? Or a “bikini body”? Simple: take your body and put it on a beach, or in a swimsuit, or in a swimsuit on a beach. Done! Problem solved. But seriously, the beach is gonna get whatever body you give it because it has no choice in the matter! Suck it, beach; here comes the cellulite and the hairy legs. Here come the jiggly arms; the toned abs; the spider veins; the Michelle Obama totally ripped arms; the round tummies; the dry skin; the tattoos; the flat butts; the curvaceous hips; the bountiful thighs; body parts and types of every imaginable shape and size. And guess what? The beach will be fine! Everyone on the beach is too worried about their own bodies to even look at yours with anything but awe for your choice in swimwear. So, if you’re feeling stressed about having to look a certain, unattainable way in order to wear a swimsuit or show some skin at the beach, remind yourself: The Beach is Gonna Get Whatever Body I Give It. Dammit.
Scent notes: An unapologetically feminine tropical floral. Monoi tiare, pilate, frangipani, juicy lychees, and dune grass against a welcoming, salty ocean shore