I have a very delicate sense of smell. It’s sensitive to the point where I tear up and act out over what might be considered to most as a barely perceptible odor. I am admittedly the chick sneaking sniffs of my own arm pits on a regular basis just because… And you know what, I’m okay with that.
Over the years, I’ve come to believe that my low tolerance is a result of being vertically challenged (read: short). Living life at arm pit level with the majority of folks makes me privy to a whole lotta stink that the average person at 5’7″ might miss. ESPECIALLY when it’s time to be upclose and personal, if you know what I mean. Needless to say, it’s really interesting to me that 58% of you would prefer a partner who’s entire body stinks versus the 41% who voted for a partner with a yuck mouth.
Perhaps it’s because you plan keep them stocked with prescription strength Mitchum deodorant and clean shirts/ underwear…. True, I hear ya. But let me ask you this right quick- What happens at the end of the day, when they lay down on your 600 thread count sheets and get to snuggling up next to you??? EEEEWWWWAAAAA. And you know it’s inevitable that you’ll become guilty by association. Because how can a passing stranger tell that it’s only him/ her that smells like sour milk when you’re both sitting together? So what, you’ll just pretend to ignore the folks when who move away from the two of you? Uh-uh, no thank you.
I think I’ll just figure it out with the Mr. Yuck Mouth. Sure my purse will forever stay filled to the brim with packs of the dark blue brand of Extra gum (you know, the one that will burn a freakin’ hole in your nose?) and peppermint candies. My life reduced to be scheduling trips to the dentist and internist every other week while wielding a tongue brush like a saber sword. I will even sacrifice the days of deep toe-curling kisses and instead learn to hold my breath as long as it takes to place the perfunctory pecks on the cheek while always, always sleep facing away. And even though I will also probably have to pretend that I don’t see our mutual friends’ eyes tearing up from the offensive stentch when my beloved one leans in to say hello; at least he will be allowed to sit near the rest of us.
Move over Shanna Moakler and Sara Palin, there’s a new patron saint of poor white trash in town. It seems, Cindy Guyer, a model for covers of err-umm romance novels like “Rebellious Bride,” allegedly attacked her estranged husband, Andrew Catapano’s mistress at his fraud trial at Brooklyn federal court.
