4ajbukoshka

Once again, confusion spreads in the Tshajbukoshka household. Having long searched for the carrot (which ideally doesn’t pull threads) and sworn to smell Heliotrop on rosemary, Alf came around the corner and first pointed out that pink and violet are not the same, and then wanted to marinate Tshajbukoshka's cat. No problem, as the fluffy kitty bottoms are currently going through a coat change.
Looking over Alf's shoulder, Tshajbukoshka would like to file a complaint when the following picture emerges:
Her sweet little kitty - still in her Sunday tutu and in a baking dish! - nestled on Tictacs and Heliotrop, a bit of marzipan here, a bit of rosemary there, and off it goes into the oven. In between, Alf seems to brush her with one of the typical orange blossom whiffs or that one summer Guerlain that Tshajbu finds too strong, for better crust formation. Okaaaay.
The cooking time is surprisingly long, and what comes out in the end is a fluffy soft cloud that emits cotton candy and (not necessarily the most exquisite Guerlain) vanilla, but keeps you satisfied for an extremely long time, though of course, no one would ever eat it except for Alf.

For the translation: It took about a hundred years for Tshajbukoshka to understand that Si Do is violet and that she had been testing Mi Fa the whole time. Neither of those is written on her bottle. So she had been testing blindly or used the wrong pyramid as a reference and compared.
The image of Alf was inspired by one of the cat beings in the Tshajbukoshka household, which smells fluffy soft and almost like cotton candy and marshmallows, though not as in-your-face as Love Don't be Shy. (In-your-face, the furry monster prefers to waft the typical tuna cat food breath, but that’s another story.)
The rest should be self-explanatory.
Bon appétit!
+++Disclaimer: No cat was tortured and/or eaten for the production of this text into a non-edible pseudo-gourmand.+++

So...
Goddess, Mon Guerlain, and Noblesse Royale meet in the pub.
Where's the punchline, one might ask? - There isn't one, but there is castrated-trimmed lavender, sugary-vanilla-like nestled, elegant, without the eeew-factor, without hairspray or musty notes like with La Rive and other dupe or copycat houses.
Something is wafting around in the background. Is it cocoa, tonka beans, or Eau de Chemistry Set?
It smells, in any case, perfume-y, elegant, and as if Noblesse Royale would have liked to become a goddess.
We shouldn't care; anyone who has one of the aforementioned candidates doesn't need any of the others, unless the plan is gatekeeping and creating confusion.
Salem would wear Goddess and claim it was Noblesse Royale - or vice versa.
Tshajbukoshka would go to the nearest drugstore of their choice and give it another try, although probably more in the direction of autumn.

Actually, Tshajbu wanted to write something about 'Perfect' and Salem was going to give a monologue about how no one is perfect next to him, until Chloé showed up on Sunday morning at 7:30 AM with what she claimed was a contact lens that had slipped into her eye and her little makeup bag at the door, so that Tshajbu could pull the lens out of her eye and she could prepare for her date at Tshajbukoshka - which, by the way, took place in the afternoon.
Tshajbukoshka, more curious than the neighbor who peeks over the fence on tiptoes and optionally with binoculars, was once again hooked by a pretty package.
Signor I: [...]
Salem slams the door: Bro, you’re not the one I’m talking about.
Chloé's bottle is almost empty; she has been carrying it around for months, and it lies heavy and valuable in kleptokatzischen paws - no rust, no dents, but a bit of Dark-Romance aura, and bam, Tshajbu has sprayed it before Chloé can say "but that’s my last bit, there might be no more." At least Tshajbu had to feel like he looked 360° into Chloé's eyeball before eight o'clock. In a loop, because: no lens in sight.
The air smells warm, of this popcorn-like, very sweet (not sweaty) note that the velvety shiny, not belonging to Salem, cat fur of the house carries. Jeanny, the name of the cat fur, smells like popcorn and sunshine, sometimes also like cotton candy, but that’s another story.
Despite the temperatures and the "in your face" punch, the scent is not too stuffy on Chloé, surprisingly. It smells like diva, but not unattainable.
And Tshajbukoshka feels a bit nauseous. WTF? What’s going on, Monsieur Bisch? Tshajbukoshka felt this way about 'La Belle' too, and if she thought a little more, probably even more Bisch creations would come to mind that are so great on others but cause headaches and/or nausea for her.
Unlike Chloé, Tshajbukoshka would place Pure XS more in the cooler seasons and towards the evening and would vehemently advise against blind purchases.
Chloé: gets showered with positive reactions and attention more often with nothing else than with this
Chloé also says: It's giving Scorpio Energy!
Tshajbukoshka thinks: It smells like tropics and peach(?!) - and olfactory blindness from nausea
Jeanny: is unusually not hiding under the kitchen cabinet
And so they lie with Tshajbukoshka on the sofa landscape for half of Sunday, letting the sun shine on their furry cat bellies and wondering if Chloé will come back today.
The date apparently went well.
Salem: wants to comment on XS but gets kicked towards the moon - Tshajbukoshka thinks, especially in the first hour, it probably still smells a bit of Mr. Bisch's Paco Rabanne.

Salem: Hey Tshajbu, do you remember your grandpa?
Tshajbu: The cat died two years ago. Minou? No, you surely don’t mean that one. Which one?
Salem: Not the cat whose name raised more questions than it answered, I mean the one for whom I would have taken a wrench and fixed his self-driving car. It's his birthday today.
Salem: presses the Jeff Goldblum button in the Thor spaceship and somewhere in the next room or from the dishwasher it booms ‘it’s my birthday’
Tshajbu: Ahem. Salem, you know you don’t have thumbs, right? But I know now which “grandpa” you mean. That guy isn’t even fifty years old and hasn’t become a grandpa yet. I think.
Salem: The guy smells as if he’s been reborn for the third time because he always jumped into the ice water in January.
Tshajbu: Orthodox?
Salem: Primarily, first and foremost, it’s about order! Because […]
Tshajbu: Order must be! Yes, the pedant… you might think he’s five hundred years old when you hear him ramble on, but he is indeed impressive, that old coot. We like him, the moss-covered one.
Salem: Yayayaya. The guy bathes in his aftershave as if it multiplies like dust particles in the air and pretends that his Eau de Toilette is simultaneously his claim to authority.
Tshajbu: At least his bald head is always so meticulously polished that I can perfectly pluck my eyebrows while standing behind him. And his garden is so full of lavender that surely none of those mutant spiders would ever wander into his house.
Salem: And he can leave his axe packed away, because one thing is certain. Tshajbu will not steal his spray bottle.
Tshajbu: He seemed so out of time back then, I would say retro. But his presence is more than comforting, very aftershave-clean, yet still charming.
Salem: Just like he can be himself, just not to you, you old flea box.
Tshajbu: You’re mixing things up. Just because he doesn’t act like an old rag with 1.8 per mille, you can’t say something like that?
Salem: I can. Obviously. Maybe it was different in the eighties. Or, Tshajbu?
Tshajbu: Weee. Teee. Eff. We are neither Glenn nor did we exist in the eighties. We are not the Soviet Union. And space for tsars… we have that at most in the perfume cabinet.
Salem: Not in ours, we don’t have one. But in Grandpa U/hus there is definitely still space. And he surely can’t say no to such a classic. Someone wrote before you something about “old-fashioned” and that some think they can just blindly reach for it as soon as it’s mentioned that you’re looking for a gift for an older gentleman. Come on, pack it up. The 200-year-old man will consider this greenhorn an excellent choice.
Tshajbu: I’ll do that too, just not for myself!

“Wow, what a fraud you are.”
“I expected more after the first impression. Your appearance (!) promised more.”
“Nadja raved about you, saying you would be worth it and that I would like you.”
“But you smell quite strong.”
“A bit too much hairspray, right? Did you go under the lacquer monkeys?”
“Are you an alcoholic?”
“I only took you home because of the lychee. And where is it now?”
“Somehow, I have to think of my foster mother. One of those I didn’t like.”
“You could have shown a bit more endurance; it really wasn’t worth it.”
“The will was there, but nothing more, just a sad excuse for your kind.”
“All natural doesn’t always imply good things.”
“Just wash it off or simply wait the perceived half hour, which probably only lasts two minutes, until it’s over.”
“To forget. I’m sure I’ll find a better one at dm.”
“Next, please. But this time for real.”