Anti-Deodorant Dissertation

I am not willing to come out and say that I am explicitly against deodorant. Quite the contrary. In fact, I find the idea amazing. I often ponder the person who came up with the idea and how they pitched it in their head. (Light bulb enters stage right and pauses for a brief moment before pulling its own string and turns itself on. Simultaneously, Dr. Jules Bernard Montenier let's out an audible "EUREKA!") All one need do is rub this magic salve under your arms and smell like a rose all day long. Some are strong enough for a man, but pH balanced for a woman. Others claim that anything else would be uncivilized. This is all good stuff. What I don’t like is the idea of cramming aluminum into my pores and calling it a day. The idea terrifies me. I know that there is "evidence" that a lot of these adverse health "findings" are totally "bogus." Still, the idea gives me a serious case of the wiggins, which is why I am a soley deodorant wearer. No aluminum for moi.
Now, if you are a woman who does not wish to use anti-perspirant, the deodorant endeavor becomes even more interesting. It is impossible to walk into any drug store and find what you need. Also, when I did, it was always baby powder scent. Have you smelt righteous BO mixed with baby powder? It’s like baby diarrhea to the nth degree. It is terrible. I have tried the various hippy brands and don’t get me started, don't even get me started. Now, I know why hippies smell. It's not the patch pants or the disdain of contributing to a market economy—it’s the effing deodorant! My compromise is to buy men’s deodorant. Only a few scents do I find truly repulsive on me and, incidentally, they are also the scents I find repulsive on men. Musk is the number one turn off. If I smell a musky underarm I get to packing. Generally, I am a speed stick girl. However, lately, the original has been letting me down. So, in an attempt to reduce my stank factor, I decided to try the irish spring inspired scents. The first one was a hit. I smelled faintly of soap and water. It was awesome. Then, I got cocky. If one in this scent line was good they must all be, right? WRONG. The Speed Stick Irish Spring Icy Blast smells like leprechaun taint. Everytime I lift my arm I think I am smelling the sweaty under carriage of a lumberjack. I get someone else to smell me and they say they smell cologne. It is enough to drive a sistah crazy. Now, I am forced to wash shirts after every wear that I might otherwise wear 2-3 times between washes.
It is for this reason that I find myself in a frenetic state--head to the wall, fists pounding and cursing the man who started it all: Dr. Jules Bernard Montenier. Damn you straight to hell, mister.

i've got my spine, i've got my orange crush

Last night I had a dream. It was not a profound dream in the vein of the late, great Martin Luther King, Jr. It was not a dream to live on the lips of men for all of eternity. No one will call me noble or nominate me to a panel of experts for praise in my field. In fact, I cannot even think of a very good reason to share my dream with anyone. It borders on Mundane, the capitol city of Trite.
In the aforementioned dream, my family had disowned me--cast me out onto the streets. I didn't know where to go or what to do. So, I decided to walk to my uncle's house. A geographical impossibility because he lives in California. Also, an impossibility of vanity, because he lives in suburban Orange County--Placentia, CA to be exact.
On my walk, made impossible by vanity and logistics, I passed by a house with a yard full of cats about to be euthanized. Just then, the person who [suddenly] appeared as my travel accompaniment up until the present told the proprietor of the establishment that we would take one. We would? The woman grabbed a broken cat transporter and a collar with harness and I begrudgingly picked out a cat. I found the smallest, cutest, orangest one with the biggest eyes, most full of love. I brought her home, which was a fête because she kept slipping out of her broken carrier box and refused to be held. So, I walked her on the leash.
I got her to my uncle's house and my other cats were there waiting. Julia, of course, wanted nothing to do with her and Fernando, of course, seemed enamored by her orangeness. He kept walking next to her and stopping to roll over and lie down at her feet. This is what I expect Fernando to do in real life if he ever perchanced to meet an orange lady cat.
By the end of our exodus, the little lady seemed hungry. So, I gave her a dish of an orange juice, orange sherbet, and orange crush concoction. She lapped it up ravenously and, then, I awoke to my cats snuggled lovingly against me on the bed. It's enough to make me not want to leave the house.

personalized nameplates...freak name validation

I am just going to come out and say it. I am obsessed with name-personalized products. You know the ones. The overpriced tins of breath mints that read “Beverly” in a faux Las Vegas Marquis, as though the big attraction in Vegas is “Beverly” and not the seedy brothels or tasseled-nipple night club acts passing as talent like a tart in an evening gown passes as elegant.

The obsession began when I was a child. I could easily pass this off on my mother. It’s her fault. She bought be these little trinkets whenever we were on vacation, which enable me to become obsessed with my name and, in turn, become obsessed with myself. This would be easy, because can’t we blame most things on our mothers? Her two ex chromosomes carry more genetic burden than my fathers wimpy ex why combination, one might say on the playground to another child or recess attendant. But, no, this burden is not my mother’s burden to bear. No, in fact, it is mine and mine alone.

Growing up I HATED my name. I absolutely hated it. I went through kindergarten and the better part of 1^st grade having never met another Shannon—not a single one. I often thought to myself, “why can’t I have a normal name like Jennifer, Jessica, or Amy? There are like five of each in my class? My parents had to go and name me something weird. I’m not even Irish.” Then, I met my first Shannon—it was a boy. I was mortified and heartbroken all at the same time. My dad gave me a boy’s name because he wanted a son! Oh, woe is I! I didn’t meet another Shannon until high school. My name was a freakish boy name that no normal parent would want to name his or her child.

So, when I would be in a souvenir shop and see a sheet of sparkley, rainbow stickers that had my freak name printed all over them, I would feel somewhat validated. See world?!?! My name is normal! This inflated sense of euphoria would be immediately dashed the next time I had to explain that my name was not, in fact, Sharon. That name is even worse than my real name.

So, that is where the obsession came from. Whenever I have a lay over in an airport, I always look for name personalized item. I still have that sense of validation when I get my notepads that say, “A message from Shannon.” I will often pick things up for friends, to let them know I think their name is valid and completely normal, too. Also, I have gotten better at enunciating my name upon being introduced to someone. No one calls me Sharon anymore.

the honeymoon is over...

I like to call the beginning of fall the honeymoon period of the autumn/winter time of year in Seattle.
The leaves on the trees are lush and full of the changing colors of the season. There is a hint of a chill and the whisper of rain in the air. People laugh about their state of inappropriate dress and lovers cling to each other as they mosey down the sidewalk that has only begun to collect leaves from the friendly trees lining the street. Shopfronts and shop keepers seem inviting. Cocoa, curling up with a good book, warm baths, and fire seem delightful, especially when combined with a loved one/intimate partner. There is a hopeful optimism about the things to come and people seem genuinely happy. Kids happily kick around a can amid the drizzle, the clanking and the laughter comforting reminders of the impending holiday season--a time for togetherness. [deep sigh] life is good.
Well, that period is over.
The trees that line the streets are mostly naked. At best, they look cold and mean. There is no hinting nor whispering about the cold and the rain. It is wet and freezing everywhere. No one is carefree or giggling about their inability to dress for the weather. People are pissed at themselves and they are hating life. More importantly, they are despising the limp, lifeless leaves dejected from their angry trees that have since collected, turned to mush, and have taken over the sidewalks as well as the storm drains; making it so that cars that swish by manage to splash pedestrians as they come toppling to the ground after sliding on that pile of leaves they found endearing just the month before. It almost seems like an ambush, sabotage, or mutiny. Lovers are not clinging to one another and no one is moseying down the lane. Shopfronts and shop keepers become bothersome as all anyone wants to do is go home and go to bed. Heaven help the poor loved one/or intimate partner this person is coming home to. This person gets the joying of bearing the brunt of the frustration. They don't understand what has been endured in the day, nor do they care, and why won't those stupid kids go inside and shut the H311 up!?! Anxiety is high as anticipation ramps up for the holiday season--the hustle, bustle, and head aching stress. No one is happy and life sucks.
I think that is why Pilgrims were so smart to decimate leagues of Indians when they did and Jesus had enough foresight to be born during this season. Because of this, amid the seasonal affective disorder, we have two wonderful holidays to be together and pretend to tolerate each others' company. I truly believe that if it weren't for these two holidays there would be higher incidences of homicide and assault during November and December in Seattle.
The honeymoon is over, but alas there is hope.
Be well, Do good work, and Keep in touch.

Devoted Readers

I feel like it has been about/at least a year since I have written down anything at all and possibly longer since I have blogged/ranted/what-have-you. I will not succumb to the temptation to bore you with the insignificant details of my mundane life. Because, when it really comes down to it, I have been keeping my plate full with empty calories. My life plate has been seriously lacking sustenance. This is probably why I have avoided creative endeavors. My life is lacking inspiration. Without inspiration, there can be no creation. I have been going through the motions because I am afraid to deal with a life in transition. Best not to be bothered with instability. Better to avoid and hope it all smooths over. I am unsure how this can be considered living? I know that I am alive because I can see the steam of my breath against the mirror. But, I don't see the twinkle in my eye that used to be there for all occasions. So, even if it is better to make myself into a small ball and let life run over my back like tepid bath water, I will face the rocky turmoil of change. In nature, the most constant growth of a forest happens after the devastation of a fire. The little critters scurry away for a time, but return to a lush budding and burgeoning habitat. Within this girl a fire does burn. I will no longer try to contain it with controlled burns and prescribed fires. Instead, I will walk through the fire, because where else can I turn? The woodland creatures of my heart may seek refuge from me for a time. One by one they will turn from me, but will return to find me rejuvenated, full of life, and creation. I will be happy and I will do what I need to make myself whole. I will fall in love with life, fall in love with myself, and soon you will love me, too.
This is where I will pick up my written journey and hope that people have not written me off as ignoble or irrelevant [YET]. Thank you for peaking in from time-to-time and back to your regularly scheduled program...

Driver Safety Tip #1001

this story begins on Sat, Aug 2nd for purely anecdotal intents and purposes.
Harpo and I, for reasons mundane enough to omit, had to bus up to queen anne to bike up my bike. We were on the Route 3/4. If you look at the map, you'll see that from 3rd avenue the northbound 3/4 turn right onto Cedar Avenue. Typically, this is a fairly uneventful portion of the trip. Obviously, if this was the case on Saturday, I wouldn't bother to mention. However, luckily for everybody something out of the blue occurred. I did not see all of the events as they came to fruition, but Harpo saw some and I saw others. As we were en route down cedar a woman in her car decided not to notice her red light in time to miss the bus passing in front of her. She appeared to try and stop, because she slowed down substantially before hitting us. However, the regular sounds of brakes and tires locking and swerving were not to be heard. She hit the articulated bus dead in the center. The bus driver stopped, quite freaked out and shouted: "What just happened? My light was green right?" I turned around in time to see the light we had just driven through turn yellow and then red. It was interesting, because I didn't really have any idea that a car hit the bus for a minute or so, because the entire incident was rather quite and from inside the bus it just seemed like we maybe bumped a shopping cart.
I couldn't tell if the woman in her car got immediately onto her cell phone or if she had been on it the whole time, but the moral of the story is hang up and drive!

some explanations

WARNING!!! THIS POST IS A TOTAL DOWNER!
Here is an excerpt from a post I wrote earlier in the year:

"...most importantly, I fell in love. this was quite a shock, because I was convinced that love was a cliche novelty that didn't go with any of my shoes. Fortunately, love brought shoes with him! my insecurity about relationships seems to be dissolved. and my disdain for man almost completely gone as well. this is a good feeling and Harpo is a good man."

Harpo is still a good man, he's just not my man anymore. There was good reason for calling the relationship quits, though I can't remember it right now. Right now I am trying to figure out what makes me hard to show affection to? At what point my company becomes something to be taken for granted? And whether there was someone who was more desirable? Basically, I'm driving myself crazy and crying most minutes of most days.

So, that is why the things mentioned in the previous post make me sad. They are all things that I know Harpo needs and things I shouldn't be thinking about anymore.

boo hoo