Me: “So, I’ve heard a lot about you . . . “
Fidji: “I’m 42 years young!”
Me: “Uh, I wasn’t really concerned about your age, but now that you brought it up . . . “
Fidji: “Sparkling! Vivacious! Did they tell you I was sparkling and vivacious?!”
Me: “For your age.”
Fidji: “42 years young! What else have you heard?”
Me: “Well, there was some mention of spice.”
Fidji: “Spice Girl — that’s me! I’ve got the soul of an island girl.”
Me: “Trapped in the body of a zealous Baptist. Did someone spill a bottle of laundry detergent under our table? I smell soap.”
Fidji: “Ooooooh, I love clean things! Don’t you just love it when the world is all clean?”
Me: “That smell is you . . . ?”
Fidji: “Clean and spicy and sparkling and vivacious!”
Me: “So you keep saying. You’re really too young to be going senile already.”
Fidji: “I’m a spicy flower! From a deserted tropical island!”
Me: “Slathered in laundry detergent, yes.”
Fidji: “Mmmmm, can’t you just picture it? The air is so fresh!”
Me: “So that’s what “fresh” means these days.”
Fidji: “I crocheted this dress just for our date — I teach a macrame class on the commune. Don’t you love it? Don’t you love me?”
Me: “It’s only our first date, and you’re coming on a bit strong.”
Fidji: “I’m laying down on the warm sand of the tropical island, the waves crashing over my 42 years young body. We’re the sole survivors of a terrible shipwreck. RAVISH ME!!!”
Me: “Dear lord, a little bit of patchouli and the crazy girls start thinking they’re sexy.”
Fidji: “Where are you, oh my captain? It’s just you and me and this brave new world!”
Me: “Excuse me, but I have a bad stain I need to scrub out of my life.”
If you must buy Fidji by Guy Laroche (and I suggest that you don’t), you can find it here on Amazon.
For a tropical perfume that actually smells like the tropics (instead of laundry soap and cheap musk), go for Un Jardin Apres la Mousson by Hermes. Also, Salt Air by Demeter is a great washed up on the beach potion that smells more like a salty summer breeze than Fidji will ever approximate.
