Thursday, Feb. 07, 2002 / 7:03 p.m.

~The Curse of a Heightened Sense of Smell, and Other Ramblings From the Cube~

**Okay, look, I wrote the following while I was still at work, and I've read it, of course, I even wrote it, but I've got to say that I can't figure why anyone would want to read it. Sometimes, while I'm still writing, I think that. Jesus, who would want to read this crap, I'm bored just writing it! You know, that kind of thing. So, in that vein, let me say, la dee da, I've just gotten home, stopped by Publix after work, for the usual sort of stuff, my garlic bologna (gawd, I LOVE that stuff!), a Big Game ticket (PLEASE, oh PLEASE!), milk, and impulse items, and I noticed that in the checkout line, the Marie Claire and the Cosmo mags were covered with these sheets of plastic, sort of opaque, but not entirely, like they're fucking Playboys or something at the convenience store! What the fuck? I mean, I commented, aloud, to myself, because I'm the crazy lady who talks to herself when she's out and about......and, another thing, since when are there so many MEN at that store?! They were all over the place, all young and fresh looking, groomed, all eye contact-y, all scoping the place - it's a fucking Meat Market......and I am so out of touch. Alright, that's it, for this second.**

After lunch, back to work, in the cubicle. It smells like potpourri today, and it's driving me crazy, the smell. Laverne has popcorn. It smells too. I am incredibly sensitive to smells and sounds. So is my brother. If you hand him a gift he is likely to smell it, regardless of what it is. Before he drinks milk from the fridge he smells it, regardless of its freshness, and when the expiration date arrives, he throws it away, pours it down the drain�regardless. Without first smelling.

It must be some genetic thing, some trait we inherited, this heightened sense, these heightened senses. It's the same with sound. One time, my sister-in-law and I were in the living room at their house, in the corner talking, and my brother, sitting at his computer several feet away, asked us to lower our voices, we were disrupting his concentration. So my sister-in-law began to whisper, but the timbre, the low tone of her whisper came across as a monotonic drone on the other side of the room. My brother screamed, in anger, for her to change her speaking voice, to raise the overall level, reduce the drone. I thought he was insane, but it made sense, she was sounding like a bee in his ear.

The sense of smell issue, with him, makes no sense really because he is a heavy, heavy smoker, has been for years. By now, he shouldn't be able to smell ammonia held directly under his nose, but he is extremely sensitive. Maybe we should both work in criminology or something. Or maybe in place of the Sheriff's hound dogs. We can sniff out the escaped convicts. Or not.

Along these same lines, following this train of thought, which, by the way, is derailed every time the stupid phone rings and I have to reissue someone a W-2 form, I once read this really weird book, Perfume, by Patrick Susskind, I believe, about a man with an incredible sense of smell. But, and this was the kicker, he had no odor of his own. Yeah, he was shuffled from wet nurse to wet nurse, caregiver to caregiver, as an infant, after his mom "foaled" him in an open air market, because people were terrified of him. Imagine, none of that special "baby smell"�

So, the guy has no smell of his own, which is really weird, but he ends up as a perfumer because he can smell the most minute scent producing particles, formulate them into these amazing scents that drive people wild. I forget how, maybe he apprentices with someone, someone he ends up living with - I think the setting is late 18th Century Germany, or maybe early 19th Century. Anyway, it was a really, really creepy story, and the ending was totally bizarre. You know, one of these German "New Wave" sort of authors' first novels. I think it was his first. I read another of his books, The Pigeon, and it was much worse, not that the first was bad, but this one was a cheap imitation of Dostoyevsky.

Whoa! It's officially my break now, so I've turned off the dreaded phone, put on my headphones, and Deee-Lite is now pumping inside my head�this will be different�"Try me on�I'm very�you hoo hooooo". Wow, I can't explain how this music makes me feel. It hits me at a very base level, very physical, almost sexual. Reminds me of this club I used to frequent, when I got to the door, showed my ID, paid my cover, and walked inside, the bass would hit me, it affected my whole body, I automatically started moving, it wasn't anything I wanted to control. I miss that place, it's a restaurant now. It's still nice, but every time I've been to it in its new incarnation I've only been able to think about how I can't dance there anymore�and I miss it.

Off topic, I know.

Right now it feels like there are a million topics. Senses. Aromas. My brother. Music. That scene in "Run Lola Run" when Lola and Manni are running down the sidewalk to "What a Difference a Day Makes", how perfect that moment is, but that song didn't make it to the soundtrack.

The Deee-Lite show I went to, how disappointing it was. We stood and waited for hours for them to take the stage, I ran into the crazy gay Cuban I used to work with, and I was SO glad to see him, but he seemed so distant. Finally, Deee-Lite played, but they only played a second or two of each song, okay, a minute, then they'd play something else, like it was an extended medley. It was too bizarre. The crowd was totally pumped, everyone was dancing, singing along, then bam! Next song.

I have a lot of things coming in and out of my head right now�but in my ears I hear, "What�is�love?", and I'm sorry, but I may not be able to write anymore right now. Ugh, that potpourri smell just keeps getting stronger and stronger, wafting towards me like a cloud. I think it's someone's perfume�

"How do you say, dee-gorgeous, dee-groovy, dee-withit, dee-vine?!"

Man, 15 minutes goes by way too fast. I asked around about the smell, no one knows what I'm talking about, or no one wants to admit to having a strong scent about her - I mean, what if it's someone's new deodorant? How do I say, "Hey, you stink!"? I don't.

So, if yawning indicates a lack of oxygen absorption, does that mean that when one is tired one naturally absorbs less oxygen? One's breathing becomes more shallow, less oxygen is inhaled, therefore in order to compensate, one yawns, opening the airway as wide as possible to absorb as much oxygen as possible as quickly as possible? Is it a signal sent from the brain, "Hey! Breathe!!"? And�if that's the case, what about when we're sleeping? Why don't we yawn then? I think I'm confusing myself.

Rasta sits in his cubicle, leaning out, almost in the aisle, all day, talking on his headset. He faces me, one cubicle behind and over. Every time I turn my head, there he is. I hate it. Why? It's irritating, that's why. It's like he wants to force contact with everyone. But I don't want to contact. Not him. I don't want to see him, or smell his cologne, or hear his constant laugh, or his affected Jamaican accent, none of it. He's a pretentious bore, and he gets away with really horrible work habits, slides by, and that pisses me off to no end. So, I turn, reach into my file cabinet, there he is, as if he is challenging me to look at him, but I won't. If I speak to someone, if I ask Lulu if it's her perfume I'm smelling, if she has potpourri, there his face is, listening, his nose in my business, or as they say here, "He's all in my Kool Aid, and he don't even know the flava!"

I think I'm an intensely private person, I don't want people in my Kool Aid, unless I invite them to have a drink. (Right, this is why I keep an online diary, because I'm so private)

I'm going to end the cubicle ramblings for now. I'm becoming increasingly irritated, too many sounds, smells, it's all giving me a big headache.

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