Anyway, to stay on point, I always keep an eye out for news stories to report to you, and the smell-dating story caught my eye.
And my nose.
The way smell dating works is that after wearing the T-shirt, you return it to the company in a prepaid envelope and they send you ten swatches from T-shirts worn by other people, for three days and three nights without deodorant.
Yes, you read that correctly.
People are mailing their dirty laundry to each other.
I’m hoping for the dating service that allows me to mail the company my dirty shirts, and they will wash them and send them back to me.
Now if there was a guy who I could do that with, I would date him.
But again, not how it works.
After you smell the samples, you’re supposed to tell the company which sample you like.
I know which sample I like.
The guy who smells like chocolate cake.
If someone whose smell you like happens to like your smell, then the company will allow you to exchange contact information and you can meet each other.
At a bar.
Of soap.
I made that last part up.
I don’t know if smell dating is a worse idea than any other, and I was curious about the research, so I turned to the website FAQ section and read the question: “I’m looking for a serious relationship, is this service for me?’
Here is the answer:
“The olfactory apparatus is a nontrivial source of information and the extent of its impact on our social lives is currently unknown.”
Would you like me to translate?
“We have no idea.”
In other words, there may be no point to smell dating, at all.
If you’re cynical, like some people we know (not me) (okay, me), you might think that the point would be the twenty-five dollars. After all, there might be enough smelly people who are also dumb enough to part with twenty-five dollars in order to get shreds of somebody else’s dirty laundry, in the vain hope of finding love, happiness, and joy.
Or Cheer.
But surprisingly, the company claims to be not-for-profit, and that its “finances are available upon request.”
Should we request?
I think so.
Because something smells fishy.
Pay the Troll
Francesca
To care about politics in the age of social media is to be a little angry all the time.
If the twenty-four-hour cable news cycle wasn’t enough, Twitter and Facebook will help you find something new and enraging to click on 86,400 seconds a day.
This primary election has been brutal. Even if you have a candidate you’re passionate about, especially if you do, the Internet can be toxic.
Toxic yet alluring. Why is it so much more tempting to click on an article with a headline you abhor than one that you agree with?
Lab mice are smarter than that.
But I do it. I don’t generate many political posts myself, but I consume them, ravenously. And as a writer, I do enough stress-eating in front of the computer.
Online rage isn’t cathartic, like yelling at a bad call on the football field, or “gesturing” at the cab that almost hit you in the crosswalk. You experience it alone, in silence, while holding a small, fragile, electronic device.
A smartphone doesn’t have the heft of a pitchfork.
Not that pitchforks belong in politics, but it seems many social media users are more interested in generating virtual angry mobs than productive political discourse, much less revolution.
You can’t march in a straight line while looking down at your phone.
The agita was getting to me, so I tried to reduce my Internet-induced bile.
First, whenever I would see a political post that got my blood pumping, I’d recenter and pay it forward by retweeting a GIF of a kitten falling asleep, or a puppy doing a somersault, or any cute baby animal image I could find.
The Internet’s greatest achievement is its catalogue of cute.
Yeah, yeah, also the worldwide information exchange—but have you seen the GIF of the baby sloth handing a person a flower? It’s special.
But cute couldn’t compete with the production line of click-bait hot takes and insulting memes.
I tried “muting” or “unfollowing” those users who vehemently disagreed with me and following many more who shared my views, so that I could live in a peaceful bubble of validation.
Yes, this is intellectually dissatisfying and goes against my belief in the value of varied opinions. But I might have stuck with it to get through this election, if only it had worked.
Many of the strangers I agreed with online mainly wanted to vent their own rage to a receptive audience. They shared the most preposterous articles in order to point out the bias and falsehoods, and they retweeted the most offensive trolls to showcase their snarky retorts.
The camaraderie of feeling in the trenches together came at the cost of feeling even more under siege.
Echo chambers are still loud.
I’m not interested in being right and proving others wrong. Political discussion has become so polarized, even within parties, that you can feel like you’re hated for your views—and that hurts.
Or it infuriates.
Then I had a novel idea: get off-line.
My candidate was having a rally, and I decided to go by myself. I felt dorky and exposed, unused to having my political views out in the sunlight. But as I waited in line, I struck up a conversation with a fellow supporter. We gushed about our candidate, but also discussed how her brother supports the opponent. No one was angry about it.
I was so moved by the positivity at the rally, I signed up to phone bank. Calling strangers is awkward, but when you’re talking human to human, even dissenters are pretty polite. And some of the supporters were so excited to get to the polls, despite hardships like caring for a sick spouse, or wrangling two kids under age six, or standing in line after a twelve-hour shift, I’d hang up the phone misty-eyed.
I graduated to canvassing. Approaching strangers on the street goes against my training as a New Yorker, but after one tough day, I brought along the best icebreaker: my dog. I crafted him a bandana with the campaign logo (the dork-ship has sailed) and had a great day talking to supporters.
Volunteering has made me more invested in my candidate, and yet, I feel … happy?
I’m reminded that politics is about community: people joining together to try to come up with the best answers to tough questions and the best ways to take care of each other.
I prefer politics in person.
Ball o’ Fun
Lisa
There’s a girl at my house having an orgy.
But it’s not me.
It’s my Susan The Snake, who lives in my garden with thirty of her new boyfriends.
In fact, I just caught them having sssssssssex.
I’m not making this up.
Let me explain, because in all of my years writing about my misadventures in this house, this one is the most incredible.
You will recall that I wrote previously about a garter snake that I discovered in my garden. I thought she was cute, and once I got over the initial heebie-jeebies, I liked having her around. I even took pictures and movies of her, because I thought she was interesting. I named her, like an idiot.