Why I love having birthdays...I have my reasons.

I LOVE BIRTHDAYS.

Call me crazy--I wear that Southern-color title well--but I actually like celebrating my birthday.

Cake without guilt; cards that make me snort-laugh; scrolling through Facebook well-wishers to hit the LIKE button.

Every person deserves to feel sparkly, if even only for one day a year.

By the time I reached the "woman-of-a-certain-age" category, much of life's deep magic had evaporated. Santa zoomed off with his reindeer and sleigh before I hit age eight. The Easter bunny hopped away as soon as that ludicrous fable ceased to make even a dab of sense. Chickens should deliver eggs. Someone was on crack (or hitting the vino) when they came up with that blend of warped reality.

Kids will believe anything for a glittery present or chocolate egg.

The commercial, generated, Hallmark occasions morphed into overdone, forced routines. They keep the florists and jewelry stores busy, so they're not all bad, I suppose.

But, a birthday? There's one personal throw-down no one can steal. Not unless I choose to sit the bench. And I don't.

Why do people lie about age? Stay young at heart, yes. Keep the body and mind as fit as possible, sure. Cultivate cornrows of laugh lines and some shimmery silver hair, absolutely.

But own those years.

My age is not "just a number." It is a badge of honor and, at times, courage.

Bring on the cake. Nix a few of the lighted candles, though. No need to be OCD and court the fire alarm. 

Better idea: you should estimate how long you might live. Start off with that many candles, while you still have the breath and endurance to snuff them with one hard blow. It would grow easier each successive year, and serve as a reminder that your time is limited, not to take one moment for granted.

I have such good ideas. Really.

Hand over the silly, corn-pone, snarky cards. I will relish and deeply appreciate every post, text, voicemail message, tweet, and freep.

'Cause it's my birthday and I have a perfectly good suit to go along with it.

The story behind my novel "Secondhand Sister"

Writers know one basic truth: fiction is a blend of the author's experiences and a good portion of dreams and imagination. 

The spark for Secondhand Sister flared as a result of a family discussion about my series of novels set in my hometown of Chattahoochee, Florida--a town with two stoplights and a state mental institution on its main thoroughfare.

I recently attended a reunion in Chattahoochee where I heard the same sentiment echoed: my birthplace was a truly unique and wonderful area to grow up. I agree.

In my first novel, The Madhatter's Guide to Chocolate, released over ten years ago, I introduced the Davis family of Bonnie Hill, three miles outside of Chattahoochee. The second novel, Up the Devil's Belly, carried them forward. Though I tried to make this family dissimilar from my own, everyone thought they were us anyway.

My brother Jimmy (some of you know him as Gabby) said, "I'm sure glad you got the brother in the books into AA and dried him up a little. People keep coming up to me on the street to say, 'we didn't know you had such a bad drinking problem until we read your sister's book.' "

We laughed. My brother, you see, is much like me in this respect: we rarely drink. One beer every now and then, when it is hot outside and the beer is really, really cold. You could probably count on one hand the number of alcoholic beverages we consume in a two-year period. But Jimmy is a good sport, and he likes to kid around as much as I do. My older sister Melody was no slacker in the humor department either. My entire family is this way. Thank goodness.

"Well," my sister Melody said, "at least she didn't kill you off at birth."

In my attempt to create pure fiction, I had deleted the middle child from the Davis family. Bless her heart.

Later, Jimmy and I discussed this. Hated to make Melody feel left out. Jimmy suggested that the middle child could have been switched at birth. It happened, back then, more often than folks wanted to admit.

That notion swirled around in my mind like the eddies in the Apalachicola River. What if....?

And the main character for Secondhand Sister, Mary-Esther Sloat, came to be. 

Mary-Esther grew up and lived most of her patchwork life in New Orleans, found out she wasn't who she thought she was, then lost her home and everything she valued in Hurricane Katrina. Homeless, hopeless, and harried, she arrived in Chattahoochee in a beat-up Chevy van, intent on locating her real family. There, she hit more obstacles. But I won't give too many spoilers....

I dedicated this book in memory of my sister Melody DeVane-Kight. She never got to read it. She passed away at age 61, the result of a brain aneurysm. The manuscript idled for a number of years until I was ready to head into deep revisions. I wrote several others in the interim. Three of the books, Mama's Comfort Food, Cathead Crazy, and Suicide Supper Club, were also set in Chattahoochee, though they spotlighted different families.

Though Mary-Esther is unlike Melody in appearance and life history, she shares some important traits: a true kindness to others and unwavering optimism, even in the face of great odds. 

This one's for Melody. Hope you can sense it, up there. You left too soon, hon. And we miss you. Terribly.

Tell Daddy and Mama and the rest of the gone-to-glory crew I send my love, and oh . . . you best save me some chocolate.

Love you.

Rhett

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Secondhand Sister is slated for release end of October, 2015. The Kindle version is already available for preorder on Amazon.

Secondhand Sister on Amazon

The Error on 99

Like my fellow writers, I understand one fundamental truth: words and characters are unruly. I start each novel or short story with a spark of inspiration, perhaps a rough plot outline. I settle down with the laptop, expecting to corral a raging herd of ideas, scenes, and dialog into 90,000 brilliant, perfect words.

(Right.)

Then the muses seize the reins and shove aside my feeble attempts at control. Should I try to pen them in, force them in directions they don’t prefer, they will shut down my literary flow like Beethoven blared at a redneck round-up.

During final editing and revisions, I have meager input. My latest Southern fiction novel, Suicide Supper Club, provided more than a handful of the muses’ “teachable moments.”

Weeks before the book went to print, I zeroed in on the final, marketable product. A talented copy editor, three beta-readers, and my critique group members helped to flush out the typos. For sure, the spelling and grammar computer-creatures miss a lot. If it’s truly a word, it is okey dokey with them. Hey, I meant to write shut and not slut—it’s only one small letter’s difference. Why quibble?

Yet no matter how many times I cull a manuscript, typos lurk. I know it. I hate it.

Final proof. I checked back one last time to make sure all of my changes stuck. I always suspect the corrections switch to their former imperfection the moment I close the file, a condition I label writer-noia.

Then, on page 99, the word popped out at me. It had snugged itself next to a correction. All of the trained eyes missed it. Even the word itself (the one I thought I had typed) was eerie: a slang term meaning “let it go!”

At first, I groused about having to redo the file. I couldn’t leave an obvious error in place. Or could I?

The lesson provided: if I could not let it pass on some level, I had missed the point. Missed life lessons have a way of repeating themselves until the thick human ego catches the subtle drift.

To note: I did not correct the Error on 99 in the Kindle version. Had to correct it in the print version. I’m too much a stickler. And that book will be on file in the Library of Congress. Besides, there are other errors hiding in there. They appear in all books.

At the same time—why let things ever be simple?—I was plowing through a difficult life transition. Things beyond my control had shifted my settled world. I struggled to find solid footing.

The Error on 99 appeared at the right moment, the right time. It even fit into the underlying theme of Suicide Supper Club.

Not everything can be controlled. Most things can’t. And left to their own, situations will work out exactly as they should.

That lesson, I understood. Thanks to the Error on 99. 

Changes and New Year's Resolutions...HAH!

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes!

If I had my druthers, I’d stay much the same. No new lifelines (otherwise known and wrinkles), no serious drama, no changes in the family, or at work.

But would I prefer that, really?

I’ve learned a lot, being an author. Reaching the well-over-fifty mark hasn’t dented the learning curve either.

In a novel, no one wants to read about happy people living happy lives. Barbie and her perfect self, driving the latest pink convertible, with her waspish waist and high-riding bust. Ken with just-so rakish hair, cut muscles proclaiming an overabundance of testosterone.

 Snooze fodder.

Happiness is elusive, perhaps nearly attainable. There’s hope, but the reader isn’t sure if the hero will win, or even survive. These are the stories we want to keep reading, and miss when we flip the last page.

Show me the real Barbie—she goes by “Babs”—schlepping to the kitchen for coffee, her nappy over-processed hair sticking out like a scared cat’s tail. Ken’s in the bathroom, doing that three-fart thing he does every morning, humming to himself off-key and leaving whisker specks gummed in toothpaste trails across the counters. The kids are grown. One’s a recovering alcoholic, country-star wannabe in Memphis; the other sells manufactured homes in Lake City. The dog has ear mites, and barfs up pieces of rubber bands and pantyhose and anything else he can get his paws on. The cat shreds the furniture and has sprayed the back door so often, the porch smells like Wild Kingdom.

The toilet in the master bathroom sounds like a waterfall. When Barbie turns on the ancient dishwasher, she has to step outside to talk on the phone. Better out there anyway. Ken hates the mounds of cigarette butts she scatters like pixie dust. Heck with him. Her smoke smells better than his gas.

Have to use my imagination, when I think of Barbie and Ken. Keeps me from wanting to, I don’t know, shave their heads and pull off a leg or an arm. Perfection is annoying. Probably the reason my childhood dolls never made it to the “collectables” stage. Even as a kid, I sniffed a load of marketing hoo-hah.

One thing for sure: change promotes growth—with characters, and in real life. Some years, I face greater challenges. We all do. Death, taxes, jobs, relatives. A few things you can see heading your way. Others come at you like a texting, drunken reveler at a busy intersection. One minute you’re minding your own business, thinking about how you’re going to reheat that frozen vegetable soup for dinner; the next you’re steaming in the ditch with a 911 operator yammering in your ear.

This year, in lieu of New Year’s Resolutions, I made a list of things I wanted to manifest in the coming twelve months. A friend suggested this technique. Said she did this every January and hid the page so she could pull it out later to see what had come to fruition. Most things did.

Beat the heck out of swearing off sweets, or losing five pounds, or getting organized. I have pounded those poor resolutions down until they are flat enough to be a fetching wall hanging.

So here’s to a year of change. To crawling from the ditch, should I end up there by no intention of my own. To loving and supporting friends, to eating some chocolate, to writing some stories.

To living. Messy as it can be.

Things I learned from Sissy Kat. May she rest in a sunbeam.

Things I learned from Sissy-cat

Anything is better after a nap.

If it doesn’t serve you, hack it up (hairball, food, pieces of string). Purging your life of things that no longer serve you is a good thing.

Don’t settle for something you don’t find pleasing (dirty litter box, lumpy pillow, some people).

Don’t hesitate to speak up (meow) if you have something important to add.

You can always go back to the bowl for seconds. You don’t have to suck it all down in one bite.

A sunbeam is worth a million dollars.

Learn to purr. And purr well and often.

Love a human unconditionally, at least once in your life.

---

With love to my tuxedo kitty. 

May you find cans of tuna, feathers on string, a soft pillow, and all of your friends that have passed before you. And someone to scratch behind your ears until we meet again across the rainbow bridge.

One of your humans,

Rhett DeVane

Ode to a Big Freakin' Can of Tuna

ODE TO A BIG FREAKIN’ CAN OF TUNA

From what I heard, the cashier at Sam’s Club even thought this was over-sized  Have to admit, it’s a monstrous amount of tuna: 4 pound, 2.5 ounces to be precise. Even I can’t consume that many “tiny-fish” sandwiches and I like tuna. A lot.

 I’ll refer to this as the BFC from this point forward, save myself some typing. Special thanks to Gina Edwards, our lovely hand model, for her part in artfully displaying the BFC.

The BFC held enough to make tuna salad for the gang at the writers’ retreat on St. George Island, Florida, November of 2013. This is a serious-minded group of scribes, a talented bunch that will work endless hours pounding out a new rough draft, but still take time to yammer and drink coffee. Gallons of coffee. And chocolate, did I mention chocolate?

I rescued the BFC from the trash. Washed it several times, used some environment-friendly spray cleaner, yet it still reeks of fish. Thing is a work of art, the hulk hero of aluminum cans. And it doesn't deserve some landfill as its final resting place. Heck no. I’m planting something in the BFC, maybe catnip since the scent won’t disappear in this century. My cat family will love it

.

The BFC illustrates something I have always known: writers can take anything, anywhere and weave a fantastic tale around it. One tidbit of overheard dialog in the line at Whole Foods, one flash of shared angst with a stranger, one glimpse of a baby’s grin: there’s a story in there, perhaps a novel. And we will find it and write it, in different voices, tenses, and settings. Yet the shared humanity will echo in our words.

Something as ordinary and benign (mostly, if you don’t count the odor) as a BFC can inspire, make us ask questions, create the answers.

It’s how we make sense of the world. Thank you, BFC, for reminding me of this.

Rhett DeVane

Cross-Purpose Revelation

Cross-Purpose Revelation

Seems I can’t spend time at the beach without having at least one epiphany…something about water rushing to shore and time to think without interruption. Add being a writer into the mix, and the revelations trip all over each other trying to be the most profound.

This trip, the Cross-Purpose Revelation beat out the others. No worry. They’ll be back for seconds like redneck relatives at an all-you-can-eat potluck dinner.

The wind raged the entire four days, flinging sand into the air. The late September sun beat down, oblivious to the fact the first day of fall loomed. Waves crashed to shore, beating the shells to pumice. A scattering of North Florida surfers—thrilled over the churning sea—fought the rip tide on their short boards.

At one spot, a narrow sandbar confused the incoming surf. Primary waves combated secondary waves, sending fountains of spray into the air.

Cross-purpose waves, like life, often came from opposite directions, buffeting me. Which way to go? What’s the most important? What crisis requires the majority of attention? The questions bombarded my brain. Meanwhile, the waves crashed, blended. Ultimately, they all made it to shore, licked a small mark on the sand, then sucked back into the whole.

Where was the grand epiphany? Here goes.

No matter what turmoil, what conflict, what indecision, what cross-purposes life flings your way, the outcome is the same. You make a small mark, then your spirit blends back into the common ocean. And you try not to let the waves pound you to mush.


I must get back to work. Stop all this thinking. Epiphanies are exhausting.

The Fun and Trials of Being a Writer

I often wonder what other people do--those not equally blessed and cursed with a need to write. Can they sit and have a meal without picking out details of their fellow diners' dress and gestures? Do they ignore the chit-chat around them? Can they just have a ice-cold beer and blackened grouper sandwich without imagining some story about the blond senior biker woman sitting two seats down?

Well, I can't. And a trip to a local waterfront eatery/cantina yields so much material for future Southern fiction novels, I nearly hurt myself entering snippets on my smartphone's notepad. Why do I need to invent dialogue when I can borrow it for free?

Here you go...

"We have only the finest Walmart wine. The kind with the screw-off cap."
"She's not listening. She's back on the crack again."
"Hey, you're not the only woman in my life."
"Sorry I was lookin' down your shirt."
"I don't know how your liver still functions."
"Gonna be a good day. Most of the staff's still sober."
"You sure are hanging out here a lot. What, did you piss off your wife again?"

Add to this: a rousing conversation about Duck Dynasty--with said biker lady and her, I think, granddaughter. Then, there were the signs...the "no pissin' off the dock" sign (above) and the one suggesting you not leave food unattended because of marauding seagulls. Lord help.

See, this is why I love the South. May hate the heat, the humidity, and some of the narrow attitudes...still...it is a breeding ground for my writing.

Plus, remember...I can poke fun. I'm from here.

Clean Feet and Good Sleep

I have certain rituals—tiny procedures to tame life, force it to “do right.” Governments topple, wacked-out shooters gun down innocents, and tornadoes swipe subdivisions off the map. But if I just cater to specific steps, my speck of space makes sense. Most of the time, I don’t question the origins of the rites. When I do, I uncover nostalgic wisps.

“You will not sleep well if you don’t wash your feet.” My Grandma DeVane’s warning pops into my mind as I lather a thick washcloth. Had I glanced up fast enough, I might have seen her standing beside me with a bar of Ivory soap (so pure it floats!) in one hand and a thin wet rag in the other.

Suppose parents and grandparents tell children all sorts of well-intended lies for fun, or necessity. Several years passed before I dropped the belief that North Carolina cows had two legs shorter on one side so they wouldn’t topple on a slope.

My dad, the jokester. Small wonder I’m a comedian.

I dropped the notion of an obese, jolly dude delivering presents by five or six when my little friends started to laugh at my gullibility. That whole reindeer, globetrotting deal was a stretch, even for me.

But clean feet equals good sleep must have made sense. I’m sure Grandma took one look at my rawhide soles and thought, “oh, heck no,” especially during the summer when I ran around like a yard dog until darkness and mosquitoes chased me inside.

She could’ve said, “You’ll not put those filthy feet on my white sheets.” Too much like a put-down. We Southerners prefer to cushion criticism when possible—wrap it in sugar, serve it with a smile.

Now, fifty years later, I sit on the vanity stool with the wet washcloth dripping on the tile and think about other things my adults told me. Pretty is as pretty does; A smile is your best make-up; and Can’t, never could.

I feel a rush of gratitude for them, those grown-ups that imparted positive—sometimes funny or bizarre—wisdom. Adults that gave me rituals to tame life.

Too bad the rest of this sleep-deprived world doesn't know this secret. I lather again, wash between my toes, then swipe up and over the ankles.

Helping in a small way--the little flute that could.

The Little Flute That Could

My middle room closet is a sucking black hole where once-loved stuff collects--a mini horde of nice things wishing for a useful place in the world. Last week, one of those things raced to its new home, via the nice folks at UPS.

Should've known when I wiggled the case from the top shelf and both cats hid beneath the bed. My experiment with becoming a flute master--years past now--had been ill-advised. Yes, I managed the middle-tone notes, even some of those one octave down. But when I screeched out the high tones, the tectonic plates shifted, the Monarch butterflies changed course, and the animals headed for cover. Plus, I nearly passed out with the effort. Best, I stick with the guitar.

So there she rested in her blue velvet enclave, wishing she could meet someone, anyone, who might be able to produce silken sounds. Not me, clearly. Then I read a Facebook post from my friend Paula Kiger, about how she donated her flute to a band in Moore, Oklahoma. The devastating tornadoes took a huge toil there--lives, property, schools. Like so many folks, I watched the television coverage, wishing I could somehow help. Some small way...

Paula put me in touch with a gracious teacher who is spearheading the band instrument drive. A company there takes the donated instruments, gives them a tune-up, and a student that might not have a chance otherwise is provided with the means to make music. I love that!

For a few dollars, the people at UPS secured, wrapped, and handled my little flute. I tracked her progress across the country, and Angie sent me a Facebook message when she made it to Oklahoma.

"Guess what came in the mail today??!?!!" Angie messaged, "A very special flute! And a really
nice card. Thank you so very much. It plays very well!"

How many folks like me have perfectly good band instruments idling in their closets? The kids that once loved them, maybe even tormented the family while learning to play, are long gone to college and other lives. What if those instruments could make their way into the hands of deserving students? And all it cost was a few bucks to UPS...

If you would like to contact Angie, she prefers to be reached  via email: angietaylor@mooreschools.com.

Tell her Rhett DeVane sent you. Then mail off your flute, horn, whatever...and wait for that warm glow to start--you know, the one that cranks up when good flows from one person to the next. 

We're all in this together. Please share this with your friends!

Peace to the Little Flute That Could. 

Rhett

Beauty isn't everthing: Lessons from Mom's kitchen

 

 

I enjoyed lunch at local bistro recently. Like most of these small eateries, it was decorated to invoke an artsy feel: modern paintings, welcoming color palate, intimate seating, and an outdoor patio for those seasonal days when the Southern humidity stepped aside. Though I appreciated the ambiance and, after sampling the food, would return, I couldn’t help but think of the vast difference between the trendy art of food presentation and the Southern down-home style of cooking from my mom’s kitchen.

My mama didn’t worry about “pretty food.” I can’t recall a time when she actually garnished a plate with a carrot trimmed into a curlicue or used a tiny rectangular plate to center a sandwich the size of a marshmallow. No reduced sauces swirled around the roast like it had been attacked by a kid’s Spirograph. More likely, it rested in a puddle of thick gravy. And I guarantee you, the meat was bigger than a two-inch square.

She didn’t concern herself with the concepts of complex tastes or textures. Just good food, and plenty of it. Pinch of this, tad of that. Mix it till it looks right. Dig your hands into the dough and feel if it needs more moisture. Shell the peas and cook them fresh from the garden. Chill thick scarlet slices of beefsteak tomatoes, ripened on the vines. Whip up a hoecake of cornbread—no box mix—and sear it in a cast iron skillet.

Small wonder I was leery of trying my hand at cooking until I reached my late teens. My gravy turned out lumpy. The cake suffered “sad spots.” And none of my initial efforts were much to look at.

Here’s where the life lesson came in. “Don’t worry, sugar, if your cake has a crack clean through. We can heal that with icing, and besides, if it tastes good, that’s what really matters. Beauty isn’t everything.”

Beauty isn’t everything. Imagine that.

“You will get better and better, the more you practice. You can do anything you set your mind to.”

Profound truths uncovered. Thanks, Mom.

Thoughts on Random Things

 

 

Have you ever--and I know you have--opened your silverware drawer and wondered what's up with this random butter knife?

 

 

Or maybe it's a spoon matching no pattern you've ever owned. Seldom, a fork. And why is that, do you suppose? Forks must have a hard time repositioning themselves.

 

The strange knife with the floral pattern embellished on its handle spurred me to ponder about random possessions. They flow through my life like river flotsam: scarves, socks, serving utensils, plates, even at times, animals. They show up for a time, then move with the space/time continuum. Beamed in to help me make a sandwich or to lick my hand, then gone when I think to chase them down.

 

Random things intrigue me, especially in my writing life. What is the story of that knife? Did it coast in with a shared loaf of banana bread and leave as easily with a tin of cookies? Do ghosts appear and make themselves sandwiches, leaving their favorite knives behind? That would explain the fact I seem to never run even with the sliced turkey/cheese count. Maybe they're the ones leaving the pickle jars in the refrigerator, with just one lonely dill bobbing in a gallon of brine.

 

Do these same entities move my car keys and the novel I was reading? Hm...

 

See what comes of me having time off to think?

 

 

My best to you for a Happy New Year. It will, no doubt, be filled with degrees of emotion. Good and bad.

Random and predictable.

 

May you always find random things to bring a little wonder into your life.

 

Rhett DeVane

 

 



The Muses Return...and bring their joy.

 

THE MUSES RETURN 

The universe has sneaky ways to remind me of things I’ve conveniently forgotten. Kudos to the universe. It’s light-years ahead of me in the smarts’ department ( like that’s news).

The first tap came last weekend when I spotted and purchased a framed quote in a gift shop—more of a slap than a tap. Here’s the quote:

“Promise me you will not spend so much time treading water and trying to keep your head above the waves that you forget, truly forget, how much you have always loved to swim.” –Tyler Knot Gregson

The quote hangs in my bathroom, where I will read it every morning.

The second El Kabong came as I replanted a clump of volunteer clover. A small grey rock with the word JOY etched on one side fell from its hidey-hole in a stack of planters. This rock, a gift from a friend many years ago, had vanished amidst the garden rubble. Add to this: clover is associated with luck. Double whack.

The word JOY is one letter away from being the word JOB.

How many times recently have I transformed writing into a job rather than a joy? Too many. Many seminars I’ve attended in the past few years have focused on the “work” of writing. The phrase wormed into my heart and my joyful creative life turned into a toil, a struggle, a JOB. Shame on me for insulting the muses.

Third knock on the noodle came via author Cheryl Strayed. I devoured her creative nonfiction “Wild”, then moved on to order “Tiny Beautiful Things,” a book filled with questions and answers once published as an advice column.

One selection reminded me to simply write…that it is my joy, my calling, my purpose. To quit worrying about whether this book or that one will land in the hands of some New York publisher: that is not my concern. So many things in this life are clearly chance, fate… My mission is to WRITE THE BEST BOOK I CAN.

The importance of  perfecting the craft can’t be downplayed. And it gets both easier and harder, the longer I do it. The necessity of approaching agents, yammering on Facebook and Twitter, and networking still exists. No one is going to show up at my door, contract in hand, and sweep me away in a limo. It’s up to me to do my part.

Yet…

I pledge to allow joy to overshadow jabber. My clutch of muses—a temperamental inbred bunch who hate Southern humidity and flee for Canada in late May—are back. Glad to see y’all. Missed you. Hope you’re ready to dance, because this writer is ready to lead, or follow.

I don’t need a fourth clobber to get it. I’m smart that way.

Some funny thoughts on a stinky subject...

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

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