Skin care continues to be job one at the Kauffman house this week. With the advent of more widespread skin care concerns; we’ve added two pump dispensers to our bathroom, moisturizing lotion and anti-itch lotion. Having three pump dispensers side-by-side can be a real source of levity, particularly when you consider the polar nature of their purpose.
Imagine you have just finished your shower, you’re following your dermatologist’s instructions and you’re lubing up. Imagine how much fun it would be to smear some liquid soap on your arm by mistake. It’s a real kick in the ass, almost as much fun as a full court rash. Pity poor Cheryl, the odds are not in her favor during her late night jaunts to the potty. No lights, and legally blind in fifteen states (without glasses or contacts), 1 out of 3 means your hands probably aren’t getting any cleaner.
With all the stuff I’m putting on my skin at night I feel more like I’m primping for the Mr. Universe competition, than simply bearing horizontal to log my eight heavenly hours of altered consciousness (I’m referring to sleep, of course).
How would Noah have felt if, after the flood waters had receded, God had said, “Thou hast served me well Noah, but I am still not pleased. Getting creation right is like trying to get an indigo stain out of my toga. Let’s try that again.” Would Noah’s wife have borne witness to the Old Testament’s first tantrum – or had Adam already laid claim to that distinction?
If I weren’t so preoccupied with scratching I might be bearing a little tantrum myself. No, unlike Noah – God isn’t calling to me, or if he is he hasn’t taken advantage of Sprint’s Free and Clear Plan. However, signs can be a powerful communication tool. The thing is: we’ve got a leaky water heater again. Damn those plumbers and their ilk! I’ll bet the Romans didn’t have this much trouble with their aqueducts. Sure, they had the occasional run-in with the Goths to contend with, but, oh hell, this metaphor is going nowhere.
I don’t care how it works. I just want reliable indoor plumbing. Is there any such thing?
Cheryl says it’s my fault.
I think it’s Cheryl’s fault.
An old man from my old church, whose name I can not immediately recall, would submit that the natural order – the force that surrounds us, flows through us, and bids us together, is relying on Cheryl being right.
Cheryl was discussing the ins and outs of defensive tactics, when I made a decidedly smart assed remark – counting on a certain kind of response. Cheryl’s slight twist at the waist, her hand cocked back for a side-armed delivery, yep, I was reading her like a dime store novel.
“Remember Daniel-san, wax-ON, wax-OFF!”
Cheryl’s attempt at a playful slap unexpectedly met the bony ridge of my forearm, instead the ample padding of my supple rump.
“OW! That hurt! Why did you do that to me?”
I maintain that if her arm, in deliberate motion towards my prone form, strikes my stationary forearm – regardless if she preferred asses to arms – she still did the hitting.