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Making scents

Making scents


 

 

They say that human beings are capable of smelling more than 10,000 scents. Why is it then that one singular odor can leave us scarred and wanting to take a toothbrush to our nostrils?

For me, it wasn’t just any scent. It was her perfume — a heavy musk that seemed to live in her hair, on her clothes, in her skin. It was both alluring and off-putting, just like her. I should have known then that we were destined for failure.

My sense of smell is my strongest — and the only memory trigger lucky enough to have survived years of bong hits. I smell Cool Water, and I’m immediately back in 2000 wondering why my girlfriend smells like a man. I get a whiff of Curve, and I’m pursuing a cute poet in Ptown in 2002. Patchouli has its place in my olfactory annals, as does CK Be, along with the “natural” odor of a mate who shunned deodorant.

According to the Discovery Channel’s Anatomy of Sex program, every one of our other senses gets filtered through the cortex. Not smell. Smells bypass that logical part of our brains and race directly to the limbic system, nestling into our long-term memories. Essentially, we can’t fend them off with logic. Smells just invade, a quality that is especially alarming if the smells trigger unpleasant memories.

Hence the reason why that malicious musk has become a constant reminder that both it and the woman who wore it were too strong for me to handle. What’s more, her unwillingness to alter it proved that she was either unaware of my sensitivities or simply didn’t care.

To me, perfume and personality have a direct correlation. People who wear floral scents are trying to say, “Look at me! I’m sweet!” People who wear musks want to say, “I’m edgy and slightly dirty.” People who wear anything by Calvin Klein
are saying, “I am susceptible to homoerotic advertising.” And those who wear enough of something to overpower a room
are saying, “I’m an inconsiderate asshole completely devoid of selfawareness.”

Asked about the effect of scents in her relationship, one friend had this to say: “She never smelled bad, but she never
smelled good.” Unfortunately, the relationship was characterized by emotions that were equally lukewarm, and it suffered a quick demise.

Another friend recalled the unpleasant experience of kissing her girlfriend’s neck and getting a mouthful of what tasted like white lilies. “I felt like I ate a funeral bouquet,” she said. “It’s no surprise that our relationship died.”

There is a reason why certain olfactory expressions, such as “sniff it out,” “something doesn’t smell right,” “I smell a rat,” “pass the smell test,” and so on, exist in our vernacular. They are meant to remind us that when our eyes betray us, our nose knows. You might see wine slide nicely down the side of a glass, but if your first whiff of it smells like trash, you probably shouldn’t swallow. Applying this logic to your relationships might help.

And so I’m hoping that someday soon, the pungent aroma of that woman’s signature scent will stop reminding me of how much the relationship stunk.

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who wants to know what your perfume says about your personality. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

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Used goods

Used goods


 

 

I believe it was George W. Bush who so eloquently butchered that age-old adage: “Fool me once, shame on you... Fool me... you can’t get fooled again.”

Or can you? This is the question consuming my thoughts as I consider embarking on that risky relationship venture: the
second chance.

The world is full of success stories of second chances — relationships that ended in disaster, only to later wind up at the altar; the near-divorce that soon produced beautiful babies; the reunion of a broken relationship years down the road. But what about the not-so-fortunate carnage of the failed double dip? Are those poor souls doomed to drown in bitterness and regret, spurned by a decision that leaves them worse off than before?...
In The Sack: Letters

In The Sack: Letters


 

I have no idea what kind of potpourri of perversion made its way into my mailbox this month. But here’s a taste of what was fit for print. As always, letters have been edited for brevity and to make you people look a bit smarter than you are.

I really appreciated your recent column in Stuff@night [Money Talks]. I was watching Suze Orman the other night, and basically she stated that you should never, ever share all of your money in one bank account with your husband or wife. She suggested you take some of your own earnings and keep a separate account for buying them presents, treating yourself, escaping from the marriage, etc. What is the point in committing your life to another person if you can’t even trust them with your money?
Money Honey

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Are You Being Served?

Are You Being Served?


 

I’ve nurtured a long and unhealthy obsession with people who serve me, dating everyone from the guy at the pizza parlor to bartenders to coffee-shop employees.

Though I’m not necessarily proud to admit what seems like something of a fetish, I know I’m not alone in this little fixation either. I have friends who would probably be served with restraining orders if they weren’t tipping their bartenders so well. And I know of others who have written hit ballads for their favorite baristas.

“I used to always say at Starbucks, ‘It’s legal prostitution!’” says a former barista now entrenched in Boston’s restaurant scene.

While I get the whole twisted notion of the master-slave relationship, I have learned over time that it’s dangerous turf to tread. The service industry is its own beast. These people are, by their very nature, forced to feign adoration in exchange for your cash. And it can mislead you into believing that they will soon be wearing oven mitts and aprons while tending to your love children.

 

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Label Whore

Label Whore


 

How important are sexual definitions?

By the time this column is published, I will be seven months into what many people have affectionately termed a “phase.” What they mean by this unsolicited label is that I’m dating a “straight girl” or, more likely, that she is dating a gay woman.

It’s a term used by her friends to chalk up what they see as a temporary affair, and by my set as a cautionary warning. It’s one that I haven’t heard much since my college days, when every girl I hooked up with just coincidentally had her period when I began to remove her pants.

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Status symbols

Status symbols


 


By this point, we’ve all blown our New Year’s resolutions and have reverted to the fat, nicotine-addicted, underachieving losers we were in 2008. Old habits die hard, folks. But I’m holding out hope that we can all band together and resolve to sway the tide of one thing: Facebook-relationship behavior. It’s not too late!

In the past month, I’ve learned of the following via Facebook updates: several engagements, one pregnancy, a divorce, several insignificant unions between insecure parties, and a bunch of other crap that clogs my inbox on a daily basis. But by far the most shocking was when my girlfriend sent me an instant message to notify me that one of my best friends was engaged. What?! I almost cried — not tears of joy, but true disappointment. Nearly 10 years of late-night sob sessions, informal relationship counseling, and tough love, and I find out about this monumental life change not from a phone call, but on a social-networking site?...
Two Legs, Over Sleazy

Two Legs, Over Sleazy


The joys of morning sex

Is there anything better than a hot gale of gnarly breath in the face to get you in the mood? How about smeared day-old makeup, or the stench of last night’s cigarettes and beer? Crusty eyes, anyone?

If these appalling images sound like a collection of the world’s greatest turn-offs, apparently you weren’t listening hard enough when Diana Ross crooned about being touched in the morning. Despite its decidedly less-than-sexy reputation, morning sex is a personal favorite of mine, and something I believe belongs in every person’s sexual repertoire.

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Money Talks

Money Talks



Balancing finances in a relationship


There is a simple mantra in my relationship lately: “No fighting.” It has nothing to do with the occasional fit of rage or emotional flare-up. It came about to reduce the animated sparring matches that erupt in restaurants upon the delivery of the bill, when each of us break into a martial-arts routine to prevent the other from picking up the tab.

Our exhaustion from this game led to the “no fighting” declaration. Now whoever utters it first wins the check.

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In the sack: Letters from readers, November 4, 2008

In the sack: Letters from readers, November 4, 2008


 

 

You guys know the deal with this. You ramble; I bite. Please keep the brilliant correspondence coming.

Your column [on bowel movements in a relationship] was both funny and engaging. You should be aware that this phobia is a pretty uniquely feminine issue. Guys have no problems talking about it or even blasting the bowl noisily and odiferously in adjacent stalls. Dutch ovening (if you’re not familiar with the term, Google it) with significant others is a not􀀐uncommon occurrence, either. We men do discuss, however, the fact that it’s frequently difficult to picture or imagine women (especially the lovely, petite, shy, and demure things) doing the deed. If you can bypass your aversion to potty humor, you should check out poopreport.com. These are endless (and often surprisingly beautifully written) tales of people’s personal, hilarious, and embarrassing moments on the subject. Apparently they are a part of human nature.
Hot Shit

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On the couch with a jailhouse lover

On the couch with a jailhouse lover


She had searched the bars. She had haunted the nightclubs. All the while, a toxic relationship plagued her every move. After years of spiraling downward into debauchery, my longtime friend finally hit rock bottom and wound up in jail. Never did she imagine that this hellhole would become her haven, the place where she’d meet the girl she now calls her soulmate. This is one woman’s story of personal triumph in the face of fat, scary drug addicts in muumuus. (Both women’s names have been changed; we’ll call them Violet and Corky, in a nod to a lesbian ex-con made famous by Gina Gershon.)

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#2 with your #1

#2 with your #1


Once upon a time I was falling in love with a woman. And then she pooped.

Everyone poops, people protest when I mention my relationship pet peeve. This I know. It was how it was done that disturbed me so much: one stray pellet carelessly left floating for me to discover. At that moment, she fell from her tower.

That one little nugget came to symbolize everything that was wrong with a relationship hopelessly out of balance — me constipated by my relentless neuroses, trying so hard to impress; her confident enough to move her bowels after only a handful of dates and not even double check the flush.

That one little nugget came to symbolize everything that was wrong with a relationship hopelessly out of balance — me constipated by my relentless neuroses, trying so hard to impress; her confident enough to move her bowels after only a handful of dates and not even double check the flush.

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Puma power

Puma power


 

Navigating the urban jungle sometimes means having sex with younger people. Is there anything wrong with that?

I lurk in the shadows at seedy bars, stalking my prey with their dewy faces and high cheekbones. I wait for them to grow distracted by their new iPhones, and then I pounce.

I am puma, hear me . . . hiss?

“Puma.” I hadn’t heard of the classification until a friend gave me the label when I was extolling the virtues of sex with women born when I was in high school. Tired of the whole cult of the cougar, those 40-somethings hunting younger male victims, I was at once insulted and confounded by the reference. Me, at the ripe age of 32, branded as the next generation of acceptable hag?

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In the sack: August 26, 2008

In the sack: August 26, 2008


It’s been an interesting few months. I’ve received letters from readers ranging from multi-page diatribes to essays titled “Why Men Don’t Have Friends and Why Women Should Care.” While I’d love to share them all with you, I’ve selected some of the finer excerpts from the freaky and frustrated fans out there.

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On the couch

On the couch


 

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Wed Case

Wed Case


Gay nuptials are a wonderful step forward. So why do they make me a little melancholy? “How old are you again?” my father asks, surveying the black-and-blue arms and legs that I’m proudly showcasing. “Dad, I’m gay!” I remind him. “I’m allowed to live...

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