Inspired by the lively conversation about what defines "wearable" over at Natalie's APB, I'm pondering my own fragrance choices-- but no matter how philosophic I might wax, I'm brought back to basics by something like today's SOTD.

Daliflor smells like mochi rice cooked with parsley, cumin, and coriander seed, then topped with a bizarre and anomalous swizzle of caramel. Seriously, what is 'wearable' about this mishmosh of a fragrance? Everything. I reach for it whenever I'm bored, and it readily assents to be worn-- in fact, it's as excited to go out on the town with me as I am to take it along. I like it almost in spite of itself-- just like I like Tumulte, that crazy raspberry rose by Christian Lacroix that makes wintertime near about bearable... just like I like Clutch, Abercrombie & Fitch's L'Eau-Serge-Lutens-for-mallrats... just like I like Florida Water, the cheapest-of-the-cheap grocery store fragrance that smells positively heaven-sent. (Brut? Don't get me started-- that stuff makes my mouth water. In the words of Hedwig, Deny me and be doomed!)

Long story short: if I were to be Remanded 4 Life to the proverbial desert island, would I really-honestly-no-joking-now tote along one of my precious special-occasion five-star fragrances for the duration? Yeah, probably. But the three-star "wearables" would be the ones I tuck in my underwear to smuggle in as pure scrum-dilly-umptious contraband.

Even in paradise, guilty pleasures are indispensable.