(30 Day Without Body Wash)
About a month ago I went on my weekly visit to the grocery store. I had checked the fridge and cupboards before leaving home, and had a full list of my needs filled out. I loaded my basket, helped bag my own goods, and even used a coupon to save a dollar. Quite a success. Or so I thought.
The next morning I had my granola-pineapple-yogurt breakfast, fresh milk and coffee, and even a new carton of coconut water for after my run. The real surprise hit me when I stepped into the shower. My bottle of body wash was on its last leg. I forgot just a day ago, I had inverted it thinking, “Good thing I’m going to the store. This thing has one, maybe two days left at best.” My destiny was set, another trip to the supermarket, for the dreaded one forgotten item.
After exhausting the last of my body wash and drying off, I began to weigh my options. I could try to squeeze in an early visit before work, but that would most certainly make me late. I could swing by during lunch, but I had just purchased the makings of an epic salad that I didn’t want to miss. The only possibility was another post-work shopping trip, with packed parking lots and long lines. Then it hit me. Maybe I didn’t have to go at all. Maybe I could make do with the bar soap I still had under the sink.
Now it wasn’t about avoiding the store, now it was a challenge. Could I make it, not just a week, but an entire month on bar soap alone? The following is a chronicle of my 30 day journey I like to call, The Bar Life.
Continue reading “The Bar Life”
I really like Sunday morning AM radio preachers. Their muffled lonely voices are so full of sincerity. I imagine a guy left alone in a cold studio, recording his prepared words on reel to reel tape, thinking that if he can bring back just one lost sheep who has strayed from the fold, it will all be worth it. And every time leaving the studio, not know if his message was effective or even heard. But knowing that he’ll do it all over again next week, and every week until he is called home or is no more.
My contact has been bothering me and on close inspection, it looks as if a mouse snuck in under the cover of darkness and gnawed off the edge of my lens. Guess I’ll order new ones tomorrow, and get some d-CON just to be safe.
Had dinner with Abe Lincoln at The Barn Door in Kermit, Texas. He was upset with his wife. She kept spitting out half chewed bit of steak, complaining about its consistency. He exclaimed, “Dammit Mary, at least use your napkin so the retards don’t see you.” The waiter asked if there was a problem. To her complaint the waiter explained, “You ordered well done. When you order well done, we ruin it like a cat’s liver.” I asked the president if he could recommend a local shop for good artisan breads. He wasn’t too familiar with Kermit. As we were leaving, I wished him a happy birthday and a happy President’s Day. I explained the creation of the holiday and that just pissed him off. “Everyone thinks they have to tell me about President’s Day when they come back. What do you want me to say? Thanks for the bull shit! I didn’t ask for this. Fuck you, man. Fuck you!” This is where we parted ways.
Just step out the back door of Kent Kwik at 302 & 18, turn to your left, and be accosted by a giant rock. Now that’s small town charm.