Some may say writing a blog isn’t REALLY writing—I differ
on that opinion—but I’m taking a break from novel revisions and have some dumb
stuff to say. Blogging, the perfect junk food.
I have amazing friends. Truly. The kind of folks
that I can talk to about anything, anytime, and at great length until we’re
just sitting and breathing into the phone headset like we did when we were
teens and didn’t want to hang up long enough to do anything else.
I’m referring to the kind of folks that will discuss
bodily functions at ease, pouring over solutions to basic human issues. The
huge one for the weekend, especially given our Deep South humidity and
mind-killing heat: sweat.
I took a quick count of the half-used antiperspirants
languishing in my bathroom cabinet. Languish is a perfect word right now. Any
action above the languish level might bring on a stroke. Yes, I realize a toiletry
is not capable of languishing. I know it’s wrong to lavish human qualities on
inanimate objects, but I do. I worry about my poor little Honda Claudia sitting
out there in the full-on sun. Worry she might come down with an automotive
version of melanoma, a curling paint carcinoma curable only by a visit to a
body shop. Yikes.
Where was I? Oh yeah. The official household antiperspirant
tally.
Seven. If you don’t count the line-up of powders.
Seven! And I’m not some weirdo cosmetic hoarder. Anyone from “down here” knows
you have to rotate them, like tires (geez, back to the automotive thing again.)
I’ll bounce along, perfectly ladylike for a couple of weeks, then suddenly
whatever brand — and generally layers of powder and
Secret/Dove/Dial/Degree/Stink-Away — fails to live up to its label. One minute
I’m a flowery dewdrop. The next, redneck road kill festering on the asphalt. I
can almost hear those folks in marketing snickering. “Make up a new brand name
Phil. She’ll buy it.”
My friend told me about a foolproof product, a “clinical-strength”
waterproof deodorant that kicks the caps off the others and leaves their waxy
little domes cracking in it’s wake. A waterproof
deodorant! Imagine.
We pushed the discussion one step beyond absurdity. No
small surprise. To a new product we’d like to see: underarm shellac. A spray-on
product kin to polyurethane, beautiful in its simplicity, a cure for underarm
moisture and the hordes of foul bacteria building homes and schools in their
dark hovels. You could market two versions: satin finish for everyday and
high-gloss for those evenings out. Perhaps add a shimmer of disco glitter for
that special event.
Then I had to break the creative magic spell. “How
would you let it dry? I mean, if you have your arms raised, then you wouldn’t
be able to lower them. And if you sprayed and clamped them shut, you couldn’t
drive or brush your teeth.”
Back to the drawing board.
For now, I will venture out in my poor, beleaguered little
Honda, in search of that atomic strength stuff that probably sells for half a paycheck. And if if works, I plan on
buying my friend lunch soon.
Rhett DeVane
Fiction with a Southern Twist
