Monday, October 28, 2013

Perfume on this Shit

CHIP OF WISDOM:

Proverbs 28, Verse 23

"In the end, people appreciate frankness more than flattery."

---

CHIPPED WISDOM:

I have a dish soap problem.

My dish soap problem is not altogether calamitous, and it is somewhat easy to explain: I use too much dish soap.

There.  I said it.

The consequence of my dish soap problem is not altogether catastrophic, and it is somewhat easy to explain: my dishes are very clean.

Okay.  Now you know.

There is, of course, another consequence of my dish soap problem, and it is not altogether cataclysmic, and it is somewhat easy to explain: I spend more money on dish soap annually than is necessary.

So.  There it is.

The thing is, though, when the dish soap bottle is full, I get reckless with my squirting and my spurting, as so many immature boys do.  It's very Freudian.  I just spray all over the place.

WAHOO!  WHOOOPEEE!  I DON'T CARE!  LA LA LA!  TAKE THAT, DISHES!  

And, so on.  And, so forth.

It's like a party of some kind, and my sink is the Playboy mansion.  Or the Penthouse, um, penthouse.  

By the time the bottle is half empty, I don't care anymore.  "Oh, it's half empty," I say to myself, "I don't care.  Anymore."  And so I spray and spurt and squirt with aplomb.  Because, what's the fucking difference by that point?  

Then, when it's almost gone, well, hardly time to conserve now, is it?  And so I absolutely coat the dishes with pink or plum-hued oomidigoobiness.  

Clean.  Freak.  

And, as I have mentioned: we use a lot of dish soap.  Hence, my dish soap problem.  Hence, my coffee often tastes like Lemon Joy.  Hence, soap is probably coursing through my veins at this very moment.

Henceforth, new paragraph.

These paragraphs aren't very long, are they?

I didn't realize, until as recently as a couple years ago, that I had a talent for tarting up phrases, for making the not so nice appear quite so nice, on paper that is.  For tidying up phrasing or for dressing up scenarios.  For nipping and tucking, in the written form.  For cleaning things up.  I guess it should come naturally for someone who has liquid detergent for blood.  Sometimes my coworkers would be writing their notes and one would pass along a patient note to me and say, "Can you spray a little perfume on this shit for me?"  And I would suggest a rewrite or two to make something a little more therapeutic, a little tighter, neater, nicer; cleaner.  And, invariably, my colleague would make the suggested edits and trot away happily because, as far as they knew, I was a writer and knew what I was talking about.

And I am only too happy to perpetuate the fantasy.  As fantasies go, it's pretty innocuous.

Anyway, as I was washing dishes tonight, I was thinking about this alleged ability of mine, this facility with the Queen's English and my gaze fell upon the dish soap bottle (now dangerously close to empty) that sat, upright like a penguin, in front of my on the sink, with its back label facing me.


On the off chance that you are over forty (and, if you are, reading this blog will only prolong your sorely extended adolescence, which is probably why you're here) and cannot see that, allow me:

"Inspired by the winding canals of Thailand that are lined with 
dragon fruits, mangoes and papayas."

And then it says the same thing in French.  And then it talks about how it'll burn your face off and turn your eyeballs into Raisinettes if you spray it all over yourself.  

And I was thinking to myself, "Wow.  I missed my calling."  Really.  I could have combined my two great loves: dish soap and spraying perfume on this shit by working for SC Johnson Wax or whoever the fuck makes this dish soap shit, AND I'm sure that, working for them, I could score free dish soap for life and so that would really have killed two birds with one stone and that just would have been a great career move but instead I work at a goddamned psych hospital and do Gilbert & Sullivan operettas and get dish pan hands and play around in the sink like a second grader and everything is going fine.

And then I looked at the new bottle sitting next to that dragon fruit and papaya one.


"Inspired by the lavender fields of the Mediterranean."

And I thought to myself, "That's it?"  

Whoever wrote that couldn't possibly have been the same genius who penned the description for the "Thai Dragon Fruit Scent" Dawn.  Unless it was 5:00, time to go home-- oh, shit, I still have to write for the "Mediterranean Lavender Scent" Dawn, oh whatever kind of thing.  

I can accept that.

I don't appreciate it.  But I can accept it.

Sometimes, though, even when it's the end of the day and your hands are all chapped and there's nothing left in the bottle and your tank has run dry and the babies are screaming and the dog has unzipped your wife's purse and there's Kleenex and coins and glitter all over the floor and it seems like they're going to find out about you and it's time for bed and it's time for morning and it's driving and fueling and farting and crying and meds and meat and drink and sex and puzzles and cable TV-- sometimes you still have to just try.  Try to put some perfume on that shit.  For yourself.  For your mother.  For God and country.  For the Duke boys.

For all of us.

Why?

Because, Goddamnit.  Because this is America.  Because this is your captain speaking.  Because I have a song to sing, O.  Because this I believe.  Because mistakes were made.  Because this is the way we were.

Because I have a dish soap problem.  

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