I have always liked mimosa in fragrances. Rather, I should clarify: I have always liked Acacia farnesiana (cassie) and/or scents with heliotropin. The term "mimosa" is a bit of a moving target, even in botany, as there are about 400 species or cultivars of plants under this genus, mostly with pink or mauve flowers, in addition to many other shrubs or trees that produce poofy, cartoonish blossoms and were historically lumped in under the name by the public — silk tree being an example. The sweet, warm, powdery smell we encounter in perfumery, with its facets of almond, honey, violet, craft paste and fresh cucumber, comes from distillation of the soft, feathery yellow petal clusters of the acacia species that most of us in the West know as mimosa flowers. One of my most vivid and happy memories of visits to France is the bushels of mimosa branches tossed out during "La Bataille de Fleurs" or flower parade during the Carnaval de Nice, which winds its way along what must be one of the world's most beautiful thoroughfares, the Promenade des Anglais.

For all its cheerful straight-forwardness, mimosa appears to be a hard note to use in perfume. There are very few credible soliflores and many mainstream fragrances with a strong mimosa presence come off as airheaded and shampoo-like. With the IFRA restrictions on heliotropin, it has become even more difficult, if not impossible, to base a fragrance around the flower. Looking to include perfumes with some availability in this list, I found that almost all the mimosa fragrances I'd enjoyed at the beginning of my perfume education in the mid-noughties were discontinued or reformulated. Caron Farnesiana, long the great classic of mimosa perfumes, has gone through so many versions that it is hard to keep track of them all...

When the topic of past lives comes up, what time period do you picture yourself inhabiting? For some reason, I always regress to a city in the Middle Ages. No other era or geographical location ever comes to mind. Perhaps I was an inn-keeper, goutishly solid and pink-cheeked and wary. If gender and physical talents are passed through the centuries, then I could have been a wet nurse. If they are not, then maybe I was a monastic scribe and illuminator. (My handwriting is awful.) It is strange to feel so connected to the sights and sounds of medieval Europe. I don't actually believe in reincarnation. I think my visions come from the more recent past, from pop culture references about the dark ages like The Lion in Winter and The Name of the Rose. What the books and movies are notably short on, however, is odors.

Most of us think of this time period as smelling pretty ripe: burning garbage, sewage in the ditches and rivers, halitosis, mildew everywhere, the sick and dead of the Bubonic plague years, all those buckets of fermented urine that alchemists were supposed to be distilling into gold, etc. But years of reading foodie articles on panforte, mead and sweetmeats have perfumed my personal medieval fairy tales with honey and almond milk, dates and chestnuts and raw milk cheese, fruit jellies and poached pears with long pepper. Most particularly at this turn of the seasons, I start to dream of the scent of mulling spices. As the cold sets in, there is something instantly cheering and sustaining in the thought of hot mulled wine or cider. And for me, no simmering pot of either would be complete without a bay leaf...

Like many others who share my hobby, I believe, I was wary of florals when I started my perfume education. I was willing to countenance many a gourmand or woody amber barbarity, but I avoided flowers — and especially white flowers. I was going through a phase of sampling niche series perfumes — the Comme des Garçons incense fragrances, the Bois line of Serge Lutens — and I regarded white flowers as unsuitable material for such elaboration. Comme des Garçons White, purporting to be a more floral alternative to their original Eau de Parfum, instead smelled quite properly of sour spices and wood, and I viewed Lutens' Un Lys and Tubéreuse Criminelle as singular and humorous experiments, fascinating to sniff on a blotter, I thought, but created with a kind of magisterial, Gallic indifference towards anybody wearing them. As a smell, white floral notes were heady, insistent and complex: in a word, "perfumey". In perfume, didn't that make them too, well... obvious?

But I couldn't help noticing I was drawn to ylang-ylang. I had dried blotters all over my place at that time, and still do: I use them as bookmarks, clothing or car fresheners and post-its. Though I was doggedly wearing my modern roots and resins, my incense and tea scents, I was forced to admit that I stood transfixed when a lush tropical cloud of ylang breathed up out of my reference books, purse or underwear drawer. There were so many facets to the smell...

Twice, recently, I have walked past a rack of discount CDs that includes a "Best of the 90s" compilation. The cover features a pair of pouting Material Girls with tousled two-tone hair, red lipstick, neon off-the-shoulder shirts and black vests and leggings. I did not look at the track list, because I was so put out by the photo. I was a teenager in those pre-Y2K times and I think the producers of this album might have missed the last nine years of the decade. When I graduated high school in 1997, that look had already made at least two rounds as a retro Halloween costume. Eddie Vedder and Pearl Jam were no longer touring and Kurt Cobain had been dead for three years, but my yearbook confirms we were still wearing plenty of jeans and plaid flannel,¹ though people had mercifully stopped requesting Nirvana's Heart-shaped Box, possibly the world's least danceable song, at every party. Girls wore straight hair, pixie-cut or long and center-parted. I had a programming geek boyfriend, and after a few years of BBS posting using my family's agonizingly slow dial-up connection, I had decided my future was at a school nicknamed "M.I.T. North". There, my friends traded their jeans for Microserf khakis. Britpop groups and Radiohead were popular, as was genial stoner music of the Dave Matthews Band variety. Everybody seemed to be reading Guns, Germs, and Steel, watching animated shows on TV and going to a lot of violent, angry movies starring Kevin Spacey or Brad Pitt.² In North America, the Starr report was out and events like Columbine happened, and it felt then like we were living through a very sad, cynical, disaffected era. Looking back after 9/11 and the global recession, however, and a few horrific natural disasters and inconvenient truths later, the nineties seem to me today like oddly sincere, hopeful years. I never expected to be a nostalgic old fool so soon.

I wasn't obsessed with perfume then. I vaguely recall tropical fruity or citrus-clean skin scents like Calvin Klein ck One and Clinique Happy being very popular...

I am the restless type. Every eighteen months, I get thoroughly fed up with our living quarters — the creaky floors, the electric stove and lack of water pressure, that bathroom window that won't open — and decide we should move. My husband puts much less stock in clean slates, being a skeptic with a good memory. He resents the higher rent and costs associated with changing residences, but he always acquiesces with the faint hope that I will keep the new apartment cleaner. (Ha!) And so, a couple of springs, falls and high summers over the last decade, we've spent our days packing clothes, dishes, Playmobil figures, perfume and one metric ton of books into boxes. Even after ruthless purges¹ and some inevitable breakage, it seems we end up with more stuff in the new place than we had in the old. Since our last move two weeks ago, I've been wandering through the chaos aimlessly, moving papers and knick-knacks from one pile to another.

One of the few pleasures of re-locating is finding things of interest you never knew you lost. Around here, things of interest fall into three categories: 1) perfume samples; 2) books; and 3) jars of gourmet condiments and jams we will never use. Push back the couch and a dusty vial of Bois 1920 Sushi Imperiale rolls out. Dismantle the bookcase and both a sample of Divine L'Homme de Coeur and a copy of Robertson Davies' The Rebel Angels emerge. There is an atomizer of Histoire des Parfums Noir Patchouli in the desk drawer with the income tax documents. Ah, old friends! With more than two new fragrances released each day now, it sometimes seems as if I first encountered these scents in the ancient past, rather than only a few years ago. With forgotten favorites in hand, it's easy to start feeling pretty testy about the rate of release in the perfume industry. But wearing the finds is the best cure for my scent cynicism: they still smell wonderful and they remind me of all the treasures in my collection. Without spending another penny, I could probably spend years surprising and enjoying myself with the samples I already have.

If you've been interested in fragrance for a while, you don't need to go to the expense and trouble of moving to remind yourself to re-try perfumes you're already encountered...

In a recent post at Perfume Posse, Musette described her adolescent self as "Geek before Geek was cool". During a week when I watched The Social Network and contemplated buying a Gregory Brothers / Auto-Tune the News t-shirt, her description was just another sign that we have lived to see the day my mother was always promising me would come: nerds have inherited the earth. We've come a long way since the 1980s and nerdom has evolved: gone are the high pants and the pocket protectors (as well as most of the pens), nerds of every gender and race are acknowledged, and globalization and the internet have opened up new, niche fields of nerd inquiry. No longer restricted to math, science, computing and Star Trek conventions, nerds are becoming foodies and bespectacled mixologists, pop musicians, graphic novelists and film bloggers, beekeepers, adventure travelers, market watchers, reality television competitors and whistle-blowing website activists. Nerds have money. They own the best home theatre equipment and make the coolest Halloween costumes. They know the only coffee place in town with a Clover. And, increasingly, some of them are smelling really good.

Perfume is a great hobby for geeks and systems wonks. It can involve hours and days and weeks of research into a secretive, trend-driven and detail-oriented industry. You end up collecting bottles and vials, ordering or swapping rarities through the mail and building storage units or furniture to organize your collection. You exhibit a lot of mavenish behavior, like checking currency conversion websites multiple times a day. Almost every perfumista of long-standing I know keeps a spreadsheet or electronic notepad full of data on sample testing count, fragrance notes, prices, perfumer names or vintage scent markers...

If you are sick of being sick this winter, you are not alone. Flu season started early in the more populous parts of the United States, Canada and the U.K., with several urban centers reporting up to six times the normal number of confirmed influenza cases by late December 2010. Doctors and heath practitioners in North America are also seeing more viral gastroenteritis and strep throat cases this year. Vaccine numbers are down, hospital admissions for children and the elderly in many areas are up, and with all the storms and frigid temperatures some of us have experienced, we're trapped inside our homes, schools and workplaces with miserable, germy companions. My extended family spent the holidays passing around a virulent Norovirus. The infection casualties totaled 21 people. Since then my household has seen one bout of hacking cough, two solid weeks of influenza (four consecutive cases, with the result that I also came down with cabin fever), an infant ear infection, two cases of eczema and one four-year-old who apparently needs more liquids and fiber in her diet. The heat rash and insect bites of summer can't come soon enough.

Being a perfumista doubles the despondency of a stuffed nose. Two or three days last month, I was unable to smell anything properly and I was bereft. During a voluntary fragrance break, you still have access to other scented comforts: food, fresh air, scotch whisky. The last few bad colds I've had have served to remind me how much I've come to rely on my sense of smell to give color and focus to each day. Every time the congestion has passed, even if I'm still suffering from other symptoms, I've returned to my life and my perfume cabinet with glee and relief. The world is in HD again.

There are a number of different approaches to perfuming your convalescence...

Smell is the most associative sense. For years, they have dyed both men's colognes and sports drinks like Gatorade the exact shade of blue of the absorbing liquid in maxi pad commercials and nobody seems bothered by this, except me — and, well, maybe now you as well. Something I never overhear: "I can't listen to Bartók anymore, because John Bonham of Led Zeppelin has ruined me for timpani." Yet every scent enthusiast is familiar with the type of scenario where you apply careful dabs of your most cherished new sample and you are snuffling away at the baptized spot on the back of your hand, squinting and considering every facet, when your spouse breezes in and announces casually: "It smells like Lifebuoy soap in here." And you are NEVER ABLE TO WEAR IT AGAIN. The band-aid aspect of fragrances with black pepper, the ham in lily soliflores, a whiff of Creamsicle wherever and whenever it is found: once smelled, it haunts you forever.

Perhaps no note in perfumery has suffered more for its associations than mint. The cost of our modern obsession with smelling fresh has been that there are some of us who regularly wear fragrances that evoke the burnt dust of a blown computer CPU, but refuse to wear minty scents on the grounds that we are reminded of toothpaste, mouthwash and chewing gum...

Perhaps, like me, you're finding the mall especially trying lately. Maybe it's that my family had a recession-friendly homemade Christmas in 2009 or maybe it's because I now have a breastfed infant to accompany me, but the shopping trips I've made during the last few weeks have turned me into a sweat-soaked, cuss-word-using, stroller-ramming fanatic. Our visit for the annual Christmas photo happened to fall on Pet Day and the woman in front of us spent half an hour and more than $100 on many, many photos of her dog with Santa. Afterwards, I felt like spray-painting anti-consumerist slogans on mailboxes....except I didn't have any paint and the craft store was at the other end of the mall. 'Tis the season for none of the elevators to work and a shopping cart to be abandoned in the last parking space and for the exact Zhu Zhu Pet you need to be sold out when you're not even sure what a Zhu Zhu Pet is. (Here.) On Monday evening, as my children looked on with alarm, I collapsed into an incredibly rare seat in the food court and vowed with a grimace: Enough. Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me. I will go home to make a donation to MSF/Doctors Without Borders, warble along festively with Yoko Ono and spray on something beautiful that I already own.

In truth, I love this time of year and the smells I associate with it: pine, mandarin oranges, mulling spices, incense, smoke, peppermint, wet wool, candle wax, lemon and brandy sauces, latkes or donuts frying in oil...

With age and experience comes the temptation of despairing prophecy. The landscape of perfumery is so ephemeral that is hard for even the most optimistic fragrance follower to not sometimes feel like Cassandra, plagued by futile visions of flaming, fallen monuments of smell. In truth, the internet has made possible the niche scent industry and new marvels are being created every month. Meanwhile, auction and fragrance decanting sites have ensured that, unlike the Library at Alexandria or the Buddhas of Bamiyan, the lost are not necessarily gone forever. There has never been a better or easier time to be a perfume lover. But the abundance and range of fragrances available to us, as well as the wealth of online information about those fragrances, has created an age of anxiety. What should we smell now, we wonder, before it's gone?

For at least the past year, I have been campaigning for the best perfume boutique in my area to start stocking the Heeley fragrances. When the owners thought the samples I brought to the store last autumn were merely nice, I warned them: Heeleys are sneaky...