From The Mouths of Husbands: Mr Colombina Reviews Don’t Get Me Wrong Baby, I Don’t Swallow

Colombina: “Dear Husband, it has been a while since you wrote a guest post for me. Would you mind reviewing a fragrance for me?” Mr Colombina: “No problem love. What’s it called?” Colombina: “Don’t get me wrong baby, I don’t swallow.” Mr. Colombina: “Come again? …. TOO MANY JOKES!” {head explodes} FROM THE MOUTHS OF HUSBANDS… Wait … Bina, can we not use that ‘mouths’ of husbands bit for this one particular review? Suffice to say, I will take my usual, professional approach to this and extol my utmost and sincerest high-class review, paying careful attention to describe the effervescent nuances of … oh who am I kidding? Are you serious? I mean I know there is no industry in the world like the fragrance game to demonstrate the “sex sells” mentality but … Don’t Get Me Wrong Baby is from the makers of “Delicious Closet Queen” (Etat Libre d’Orange), If my high school French serves me correctly, I think that roughly means something about the state of liberated oranges or something. As a so-called unisex scent, this blatant ‘shock-value’ name fails on two levels. And the thing about ‘shock value’ is that until the public reaction is gauged, you’ve always got the PR team on standby (like when French Connection UK opened up all its “FCUK” shops across Britain) ready to tell us all it’s just a joke…or perhaps more appropriately in this case, a gag. Firstly, if it is so named as to appeal to men (beyond the 13-year-old giggle factor), then he is wearing a pointless fragrance. Regardless of name, a fragrance is always a statement about the wearer. Whereas the name of this fragrance seems more to suggest a statement TO him rather than by him. A statement from him might be something more along the lines of “Don’t get me wrong baby. I don’t put the toilet seat down,” And while that delivers the same (“I am going to disappointment you”) message, I don’t think the word “toilet” is going to appear on a fragrance bottle any time soon. Eau de toilette, yes … Eau de toilet, no. Secondly though, and this is important … if it is so named as to appeal to women (beyond the 13-year-old giggle factor), then it is playing right into the hands of perhaps one of the greatest myths of all time. Ladies, let me school you a little. Back away from the Cosmo and hear the truth. Now for the sake of keeping this a ‘family’ blog … I am going to substitute the word ‘swallow’ with something … perhaps something more Clintonesque” like “I don’t ‘inhale’. “ Whether or not you ummm … ‘inhale’ … generates not even the slightest bit of interest nor value to any male. This is the greatest over-rated thing to be proud of since George Bush declared “mission accomplished”. We had removed a dictator, with apparently little concern for where all the little minions were dispatched. Don’t get me wrong baby, but all we want is to get the air out of the oxygen tank. What you do with it after that (inhale or not), means as much to us as what colour will be this year’s black. All my life, I have heard women brag, “and I INHALE! “… like there was some sort of merit badge for it… and I thought …. “So?” With that behind us, let us get to the scent itself. And yes of course, I had some preconceived notions that what I was about to smell would … through that good olfactory magic … whisk me away to the romantic and luxuriant ambiance of a 3x3 glass booth in Times Square. (Un soire a la Light District Rouge) But no. The name is all bark and no bite (which given the nature of the overtly titillating name, might not be such a bad thing). The smell is about as sexually charged as dirty talk from Stephen Hawking. It starts of very flowery (lily of the valley, jasmine and orange blossom to be precise) as if the premise is to suggest that opening the evening with a presentation of flowers is the first stop towards converting an otherwise reluctant participant in - what the maker’s website refers to as – “an American kiss”. Damn, no wonder so many immigrants want to come here. Ah, but there is the rub. (sniggering) When one is presented with a preface of “don’t get me wrong” to any forthcoming statement, the expectation is that what follows should come as a surprise, and somewhat in the category of disappointment. And indeed the ensuing scents do not disappoint in their ability to disappoint. As if to suggest aroma one might receive from another’s mouth, the fragrances trails into a concoction of sugar and edible (swallowable?) sweeteners (like a mix of marshmallow and Hubba Bubba). It ends up smelling like “Loves Don’t Get Me Wrong Baby Soft.” Don’t get me wrong baby, I salute the effort even if I think the premise tries to be a bit too clever for its own good. At the end of the day, I just did not think the combinations and the mutation from one sweet smell to the next was either memorable or exciting. For a brief moment, I thought perhaps they meant they don’t (as our mothers all told us not to) swallow BUBBLE GUM. But then I was overcome with a mixture of reminiscing about baseball cards (which always came with a stick of sugary gum when I was a kid) and the need to get some fresh air. Don’t get me wrong baby, but I neither buy a fragrance because a bunch of juvenile marketing lads were having a giggle with the name. Nor do I think … “hmm if I (pay for and) wear this stuff, that means somewhere, someone is going to …. I suppose Ford could abandon names like “Escort”, “Taurus” etc. and call their next car ‘Chick Magnet” and some sad saps would buy it. But I am not swayed by a name, I am moved by the quality of the ride. Don’t get me wrong baby. I get it. But what I don’t swallow is the marketing tact. In fact the whole joke factor left a bad taste in my mouth. I mean use sex to sell perfume if you must …..Use sexy and brooding femme fatales in your print, TV and on-line ads. Have them pouting and toe dancing on clouds and across tables … looking all Parisian and like rapture incarnate, whilst shirtless men who just fell off the cover of a harlequin novel come prancing in like Michael Flatly after a Bowflex workout. Just don’t force it down my throat. Don’t Get Me Wrong Baby may not swallow but … it sucks.