“You may find the perfect lover by comparing tastes in ice cream, says Alan Hirsch, M.D., a neurologist and director of the Smell and Taste Treatment and Research Foundation in Chicago. Researchers call this “ice-cream hedonics.” Dr. Hirsch conducted a study of 720 people, ages 24 to 59, in which he correlated personality tests, their favorite ice-cream flavors, their partners’ favorite ice creams, and relationship status. Coffee-ice-cream lovers—found to be dramatic, seductive, flirtatious—are most romantically compatible with strawberry fans. Vanilla gals (emotionally expressive and fond of PDA) melt best with rocky-road guys. And mint-chocolate-chip fans are meant for each other.”
I think I’ll start taking all my dates to Baskin Robbins from now on. Although my three favorite flavors (no kidding) are coffee, strawberry, and mint chocolate chip. So… am I poly-compatible or just, you know... hungry?
E: This year our sponsored event in the fair is a vocal contest of sorts and I am one of the judges. Last night I had to sit through some girl butchering my favorite rocker ballad, Extreme's More Than Words. Its like our family's favorite song and I wanted to throw a mic at her face for ruining it in such a horrible way. GR.
[If only I could rescue you from this life, girl. But it's oh-so-funny sometimes.]
I disregard the proportions, the measures, the tempo of the ordinary world. I refuse to live in the ordinary world as ordinary women. To enter ordinary relationships. I want ecstasy. I am a neurotic — in the sense that I live in my world. I will not adjust myself to the world. I am adjusted to myself.
There must be purpose here, 'cause most of us keep waking up. (Don't you think it's pretty here). It's so unexpectedly predictable, so sloppily intentional. Does anyone know the punch-line yet?
There must be rhythm here, 'cause all of us have a heartbeat. (Don't you see the music here). Inside our ribs we tick an average of 60 beats a minute. A-rum-pum-pum-pum-pum... A-rum-pum-pum-pum-pum-pum...
There must be forgiveness here 'cause most of us have our weaknesses. (Tell me what are your weaknesses). I don't know myself, and I am afraid of you. I'm happiest on chemicals. The goings come and the comings go. Forgive me I'm just an animal.
There must be healing here, 'cause everybody here has been damaged. And we'll wear it like a tattoo, every scar is a smile. To hell with the going down.
And we'll wear it like a tattoo, every scar is a smile. To hell with the going down.
To hell with the going down.
There must be an afterlife here, 'cause everyone prays for resurrection. You see the end comes quick as a bullet.
Although it is only 6 pm on Sunday, I have managed to accomplish several things the past two days:
- read 4 books. Two by Chelsea Handler, the new David Sedaris, and finally bloody finished Hellenga's Philosophy Made Simple.
- started drinking yesterday at 10 am with a few Irish coffees. By lunch I was a) hammered and b) moving on up to SoCo/oj/lime (surprisingly tasty, a most excellent lake drink).
- I have a sun tan. Complete with sunglasses lines.
- Revived the Saturday night skinny-dipping tradition with E and B.
- Went antique shopping in town. Found some crazy book called 'Hoosier Lyrics,' a collection of early 20th century poetry by someone I'd never heard of... so of course I bought it.
- Laundry? Dishes? Boats covered? Check. Check.... and getting there.
- It's raining and the lake looks like something out of the mind of Melville. So much gray and blue and the shocking electric green of the plants in contrast. It's breathtaking.
- I don't have to work tomorrow and have decided to stay up here an extra day. Hell to the yes.
- Did I mention how much we drank yesterday? Oh. My. God. By noon we'd killed the whiskey and knocked off a pony keg of Heineken. On to the Southern Comfort and then my old friend vodka-and-cranberry-with-lime. Oy vey.
[And then, in true Camp Mitchell of the North fashion, we went fundraising at the annual lake assoc. bbq. We had our own table. We took ridiculous pictures of things up our noses and falling out of our mouths during dinner. It was awesome.]
- We ballroom danced on the pier (sloppily, quite blitzed) to Ella, Billie, Frank, Louie, and Coltrane (of course)... and then stargazed. And went streaking. And managed to put ourselves to bed by midnight. I'm so goddamn impressed I can barely express myself.
Looking over my shoulder to verify if I am, in fact, alone has become an unshakable habit when I wake up in the morning.
Some days I’m not. In fact, I’m reviving the age-old art of the One Night Stand… with a vengeance.
And… I love it.
Is it wrong to feel empowered? To ride the strangely euphoric wave of sexual liberation? To be this charmingly detached? Seductive without apology? Brutally honest and demanding and altogether contrary to my typically blazingly sensitive and polite self?
Is it also wrong that this weekend I woke up and could have sworn I was suddenly transported to my college days, some hybrid of Lolita and Tom Petty’s “Last Dance with Mary Jane?”
Or am I just burying my broken ego underneath the weight of another man?
(Sex is the gateway drug for the broken-hearted, if you ask me. Well, I suppose I still don't know if I'm broken-hearted or not, really. Rejected is probably the simplest description. But it's a hurt, a thorn, a wound nonetheless. Goddamnit, why do I still think about you? Get out of my head!)
Maybe this is what I mean, or what I’m looking for:
The man of your dreams, perhaps not maybe just one of the many that have fallen but for now I am ridiculously happy to be the one who curls himself around you.
- martini Thursday nights, outside under the stars (if we could actually see the stars from downtown) - 'This is my kingdom' - Not bothering to actually engage in the debate as to whether we are friends because we collectively lack moral standards and are thus apathetic friends or if we are in fact friends because of a shared sense of fraternal love, tolerance, and undiluted capacity for forgiveness. - Steak n' Shake, after-hours downtown crowd. We saw the Jonas Brothers. Or, rather, the Indianapolis version if one of them wore a pink sash around his scrappy locks and one was actually a girl. Still, a good sighting. - 'Live Green, Buy Vintage' - 'Baby I'm Shameless' - Tense polling re: grape jelly brands (childhood preference). Results mixed. - 'You tell me about your [insert experimental sexual experience here], I'll tell you about mine.' - Frisco Melt. PLATTER.
I officially love the Amp 'Walk of Shame' commercial. So much so that I typed out the lyrics and forwarded the whole shebang to my brother and best friends with the tagline, 'where the hell was this when we were in college?'
My brother replies with a clip of Ben Folds's 'Late'... aka a heartfelt dirge lamenting the loss of Elliot Smith.
Let's recap: I celebrate a commercial proudly encouraging embarrassing decisions and sexual promiscuity. My brother remembers a great artist remembering another great artist. I am an asshole.
Got me thinking about dichotomy, contradictions...
If I had a dollar for every time someone (ok, a man, men in general) told me I was either 'interesting' or 'fascinating' I would have... a lot of dollars.
So what the hell makes me so interesting, you know? This is what I keep asking myself. I'm 'different' or 'special' or 'one of a kind,' depending on who you ask and how much he or she may have been drinking. I'm 'a study in contrasts.'
Well let's discuss some of those.
I buy organic produce but eat ramen noodles without hesitation. I'm a bit of a ball-buster but hate (hate hate hate) to sleep alone. I make fun of chick flicks but watch Lifetime movies. ('Boyfriend for Christmas' is a personal favorite, btw. That one might have been on the WE channel though). I reject conventional Christianity (especially Catholicism) but feel most spiritually connected in ancient cathedrals. I look like I belong on Wisteria lane but the suburbs give me nightmares. I am the WASP postergirl but pretty much wish I was Jewish. A lot, actually. One of my greatest and most shallow triumphs comes from the fact that I look better than you do and I paid less for my outfit. (I said it was shallow). Even though I'm as domestic as it gets, I don't know if I'll ever have children. (My choice, it's complicated). The word 'marriage' gives me an involuntary physical reaction. Not the good kind. I feel suffocated by my hometown but hate when an outsider criticizes it. I alphabetize my dvds and color-code my closet but my car is a mess. I complain when I feel unappreciated by men but usually ignore and/or push violently away those rare few that do show interest. I survived open heart surgery but still faint when I get an injection... or even think about getting one. I always get seasick, I'm afraid of fish and deep water... but I love to scuba dive. I don't trust people. I own real fur. I drink beer with a straw. I'm a damn good cook but you'd never know it because I buy groceries less often than the moon wanes and only use my kitchen for making tea and storing non-perishables like $3 bottles of wine. I know the lyrics to more showtunes and antiquated Broadway hits than current top 40 songs. Hate: MTV, Fox News, fundamentalism, sexual discrimination, wearing clothes. Love: Golden Girls reruns, gardens, reading books outside, being serenaded, traveling. Think Green, Buy Vintage. I hate insects but will probably make you kill it for me. I'm terrified of being ordinary but might not have a choice. I can quote Jane Austen verbatim... from the books. I work in retail and still like to play dress up. Can anyone say 'theme party?' On those days when I think I might want to be a mother, I cry because I don't think I would survive it. I never want to pass this on to my child. Never. I never cry. Never. I talk too much but don't actually confide very much in anyone. Never been a great dancer, never gonna be a great dancer. Although I do a mean Cuban Shuffle when I've been drinking heavily. I am my mother, no 'turning into' about it. I give the best advice in the world for someone who refuses to have an genuine romantic relationship of her own. I'm solid as oak but flighty as hell. If I love you, then I love you unconditionally. Once you're in the circle, you're in for life. Love being overdressed in dive bars. I make my life harder than it really is with a complex web of theoretical ideas, strobe lit daydreams, and overly-intellectualized analysis of the everyday. I'm lonely often but good luck trying to get close to me. Really, good luck. My family means everything to me even though we're really just one big fucking mess. I've seen a lot of sunrises and don't sleep well. I miss living abroad and hate that my French has gone straight to hell. Love to kiss gay men. Talk during movies. Tend to obsess over one person for months at a time, even if I won't admit it. Years, even. An optimist with an uncanny ability for cynical foresight. Desperately in need of verbal affirmation most of the time.
“You may find the perfect lover by comparing tastes in ice cream, says Alan Hirsch, M.D., a neurologist and director of the Smell and Taste Treatment and Research Foundation in Chicago. Researchers call this “ice-cream hedonics.” Dr. Hirsch conducted a study of 720 people, ages 24 to 59, in which he correlated personality tests, their favorite ice-cream flavors, their partners’ favorite ice creams, and relationship status. Coffee-ice-cream lovers—found to be dramatic, seductive, flirtatious—are most romantically compatible with strawberry fans. Vanilla gals (emotionally expressive and fond of PDA) melt best with rocky-road guys. And mint-chocolate-chip fans are meant for each other.”
