Discontinued Identity

If there is one thing that consumerism has taught me over the years, it’s this simple fact: if you love something, buy it in multiples. Finally find that pair of jeans that fit just right? Buy two pairs. That t-shirt with the perfect cut that makes your boobs look great but is also “work appropriate?” Yeah, get it in every color. Buy the rainbow. Why? Because the capitalist wheel keeps on spinning and that thing you love will be replaced by something newer and shinier tomorrow. And you'll find yourself waiting six years to buy jeans that aren't "skinny" or "jegging" cut. 

If you love something, don't let it go... stockpile it.
And guard it with a shark.

That being said, deodorant companies have only worsened my hoarding instinct over the years. As was the case of religion, politics, and music, I held the same views on deodorant as my mother until my teen years. She used the purple deodorant, so I used the purple deodorant. Nothing simpler than that: if it was good enough for my mama, it was alright by me. During my age of decisiveness, I opted to switch to a sweet strawberry scented teen brand of deo. My pits were a strawberry patch. I literally smelled of Teen Spirit. I was invincible. This continued (sorry, world) well into my college years.

Then one day, I went to the store, and it seemed they were out of stock. No worries, I had a second stick in my gym bag, that’d be fine till I could get to another store. A week later, a different store, no sign of it. It was then the horror struck: it had been discontinued. Panic set in as I ransacked store after store, gathering up the last precious sticks. Two. Two to last me a lifetime. I thought I could ration, but I knew it was no good and eventually switched back to the purple stick. My mom’s trusted brand that smelled like her, not me.

Resigned to having lackluster pits, smelling of “fresh scent” and not of strawberry fields forever, I instead found my identity in my body spray. Boys of that age were crisscrossing themselves with gallons of Axe, and girls made a point to only crush on gents who sported the scent of their favorite colored can.  Being too young for proper perfume, I turned to the vast collection at Bath and Body works and found my signature. A simple scent: Black Raspberry Vanilla. Anyone who knows me and has any inkling of what I smell like knows that my natural body scent is now actually this spray. I cross myself more times with this scent than my grandma does at church on Sundays (spritzing in the name of the Bath, the Body, and the Works). Needless to say, I go through it fairly swiftly.

I should’ve known that couldn’t last. And one day I found it lacking on the shelves at B&BW. Panicked, the lady explained it was temporary replaced with some new line. NEW LINE?? This scent was a SIMPLE classic. It’s like discontinuing apple! Or pear – which they should actually discontinue because it smells atrocious. But no, they took it out on my scent instead.

The next time I found it, I bought three bottles. The time after that, three more. The bottle kept changing, but I had a quiet little stockpile going. I saw they brought it back and I figured I was safe. But a recent trip back, with a coupon in hand, found that it was once again gone. Several attempts at other stores and it’s still lacking. Despite my dislike of ordering things online, I may soon turn to the internets, as it is apparently still in abundance in some hidden warehouse somewhere, slowly expiring, and if I don’t get my hands on it, it will be past the point of perfection and I will once again have to wander the world without my scent. Smelling of no one. A wisp of nothingness lingering about me.

Sigh.  I know I can’t BE forever young, but couldn’t the world at least let me smell like my youth for a little bit longer? Is that so much to ask?

Laissez les bons temps roulez... while you still can!
For the end is nigh.

A Drop in the Bucket

I have always been a firm believer that life can be broken down into three main parts: childhood, adulthood, and second childhood. Sure, there are lovely gray areas in between, but largely life is just one jolly bell curve, with the early years mimicking the later years in many ways. A person rises up out of the dependence in their youth, to being strong and independent, and then slides back down and out into dependence again.  

As a child and as an elderly person, naps and mushy food are totally acceptable. As is saying whatever it is on your mind – although sometimes that can be less endearing and more so bitter with age, your years on this earth can still serve as a passable excuse to be as vocal as you want. The depth perception of a child is that of a tiny drunkard, and as eyesight begins to wane, older people also find themselves in strange battles with objects that are closer than they appear. Just ask my grandma. Lucky thing we built her garage with a doggie-door style back wall so when she decided to go through it with her car it just opened right up for her to go off-roading in the back yard. No harm done. Just like the little kid who runs into the glass patio door.

Certain things that might be okay on either side of the bell curve, however, fall into the “frowned upon” category for the middle “adulthood” section and its surrounding gray zones. Like having someone else make your appointments for you (thanks, mom) or not wearing pants in public. Negative adult points.

Other things you just never really expect to happen in the middle zone. Like getting shampoo in your eyes. Remember the “no tear” baby shampoo and how somehow not getting soap in your eyeballs was a huge struggle? And then suddenly it wasn’t anymore? I’ve gotten shampoo in my eyes maybe twice in the past ten years. Both times were absolutely awful, entirely unexpected, and followed by great distress. We all take pain-free shampooing for granted. Just like the other key thing you never expect to happen in the middle zone… peeing your pants.

Yeah, it's kind of like that. Ominous. 

A particularly jovial happy hour filled with obnoxious cry-laughing with the lady-pals can of course bring a gal to jokingly blurt out how she may just pee her pants, but the odds of it actually happening are slim. You’re a g’damn lady, and will have none of that nonsense. Lest alone in public and in front of friends who would hold that over your head till the grave.

Then one day as you’re leaving work, you think, “Hm, maybe I should use the restroom before I drive home.” Naw. You’ll be fine. But as you leave, your co-workers kidnap you to happy hour. Distracted, you throw back a few diet cokes and some gossip and then head out, bladder forgotten. Walk to your car, hit the road. It’s only after the first pothole that you realize. You might not make it. Every pothole after is excruciating. You accelerate, silently praying that you don’t hit any red lights. But you do. You hit every single one. And end up behind that vehicle that is inexplicably going 26 in a 30 zone. 30 MEANS 35, you soulless monster! They are obviously doing it on purpose. This is all some sort of penance.

Thirty blocks from home, you concede and pull off in the ghetto to stop at a gas station. The kind of gas station with bullet-proof glass around the cashiers and with no rolly hot dog machine.  Where you wish you could bring your car into the bathroom with you so it doesn’t get scared being left alone in this neighborhood. This is a place you’ve never even thought to stop at before. You hit the bullet-proof wall, an uncanny desperation in your voice, and quickly ask for the location of the restroom. Employees only, they say. Only. Employees. After a fruitless exchange in which you kindly plea for them to make an exception, you threateningly throw it out there that it’s actually illegal to withhold the use of a restroom from someone with certain medical conditions. They ask what condition you have. You scoff/shriek and sprint out of the gas station. This argument through the glass is wasting precious time.

That thirty blocks turns into a waking nightmare. You finally arrive home, now walking slowly so as not to jostle the contents of your overly pissed off bladder. Go to open the door. The keys fall from your hand. Looking down at them on the ground, you want to shed a single tear. How could you possibly bend over to get them? There is NO way that could end well. 

This is the point of no return. 

A deep breath and a moment of decision later and you have rapidly dropped, grabbed the keys, thrown open the door and begun sprinting like the devil up your stairs, down the hall and into the bathroom. You and your dignity made it. This time…

Hostess with the Mostest

Nothing screams “adult” more than hosting an event or having a house guest. In doing so, you’re saying, “Look, I have my own space, which constitutes a home, and I wish to invite you into my fabulously adult dwelling and show you how neat my adult life is.” It’s a power move. And usually fun as hell to boot.

Having hosted a fancy Wine and Cheese Party, more than one pyramid scheme sales event, and a wedding-centerpiece-making Glue Gun and Cocktails night, I feel as though I sufficiently have the event hosting bit down. Nailed it. Hosting a guest for an extended period of time is a whole ‘nother ballgame.

First off, you’ve got the prep. This entirely depends on the guest coming.

Dust elephants, you're not invited to the party.

If it’s my mom or someone who’s never been to my place before, it’s a week-long scrub down event, culminating in a last minute scramble the day of. Side A of my Neil Diamond Classics (the early years) album played in looped until every detail is settled – it’s approximately 15 minutes long, which helps with timing things. This scrubbing also involves organizing the freshly purchased "healthy" snacks in the fridge (a far cry from the dozen takeout boxes that you just emptied the contents of - into your belly, no wasting). Upon their arrival, I casually apologize that my place is such a mess, and act as though it’s typically more spotless than this even and right now is in total disarray. It’s all about perception.

If it’s someone who’s been to my place previously (an old college pal, my sister, etc.) then it really comes down to the wire. I spend about a week evaluating how much cleaning I have to do before they arrive, while lazily doing nothing. Maybe laundry so I have towels for them. Then it all comes down to the hours before their arrival, a total frantic scramble. No Neil Diamond. All club music with a beat to match my pace. Sometimes there’s a cocktail involved. Hide all the things and hope they don’t open any drawers or doors. Do all this scrambling in a tank and shorts, because you’ll be sweating if you’re doing it right. Quick shower and show up at the door looking like you’ve just been lounging about, awaiting their arrival. Cool as a cucumber at Lambeau. Apologize for the mess. Normally it’s (more) spotless.

In both circumstances, there’s a list to be made. Must check things off the list. Check them off even if you didn’t do them, but actually do at least half the things. This list again varies drastically depending on who is being hosted.

Note how the "Mom" list is meticulous, room-by-room cleaning, and is several pages long.
The "Friend" list involves hydrating, stocking the fridge and stretching out "party pants."
The owl notebook judges no one.

With old friends especially, or frequent guests, the key to hosting is simple: snacks, drinks, sheets, towels and TP. The rest falls into place as needed.  You’ve got this. Best host ever.

AND. On the bright side, no matter how on point you are with getting everything ready as quickly as possible before their arrival… they’ll still show up late anyways. So sit back, have a cocktail (and/or write a quick blog post) and get ready to host the hell out of them once they mosey on in. Because you’re a g’damn adult. This is what you were born to do.