White Diamonds or Toilet Paper

It was wee, early in the morning. I could hardly see the dog sleeping next to me, or the baby on the other side. I drifted to consciousness as I heard my husband stumbling around the bedroom, fumbling down the hall, making noise in the bathroom. Then I drifted out. “Thuwaump,” the hall closet door opened. Sean was rifling, making racket now or it felt that way to my sleepy ears. With a voice filled with shock and horror I heard “My God,” he sucked in his breath, “we’re out of toilet paper.”

There in my mind, I saw my husband standing there dumbfounded without TP. Next him stood Elizabeth Taylor sucking in her own breath, “My God, I’m out of White Diamonds, and husbands (wink, wink).” Both there lost, unable to move without knowing how to solve this dire situation, each lost without their comfort and luxury.

One luxury is easily noted, White Diamonds, it’s expensive and difficult to get, unless you have credit. The other TP, seems hardly worthy of the title. Yet, according to my Oxford dictionary, it reads luxury is “ a state of great comfort and extravagant living”. Toilet paper easily qualifies as a great comfort and in some areas of the world a rare find or carry your own, and especially when you are hiking. Since, TP isn’t widely available abroad or even sixty years ago, it can be seen as a modern day luxury. To my husband at 5:30 am, TP was indeed a luxury he wouldn’t be without.

I believe its time to redefine our standard of living. Would you want to live without TP? Is it a necessity? No, my mother is well versed in the use of the Sears’ catalog or other old reading material, and I’ve used my inventive mind while hiking. So if we deem TP as a luxury item, widely available and present in most homes and facilities in the U.S., then I think we can all agree that TP is a sign of affluence, and that as a whole we lead pretty luxurious lives.

Distinct Toe Jam

Often times as a busy mother of a 17 month old I forget to put my own hygiene high on my to do list. Such was the case when I recently decided to clean and trim my toenails. There we were, the baby, the golden retriever and I, all crammed into our tidy, ordinary bathroom. The dog of late has been somewhat unnerved, mostly by the backfiring of the sanding trucks that pass our house on the street and again in our alley. When she is unnerved she would prefer to sit on my lap.

Squeezing into the bath with the dog as close to me as she could get, and the baby wanting to help and handle all tools I used for my personal foot g rooming. I snipped and clipped, then find the pieces and deposit in litter can. Then, pat the dog on head; take sharp trimmers away from baby. The dog is shivering, so I scratch the dog behind the ears to soothe her as the truck passes again.

Well I have to admit, I have one toenail that has been recovering from near total loss, and a bit of fungus. With my foot raised to my face, for clearer inspection( thank you yoga), I gently cleaned the small empty cavity under the nail that used to house fungus which now just collects minor bits of no particular matter. The proximity made it clear that something from my toe was in a state of decay. Gross, I thought, my toes reeks. How embarrassing, even though no one knows about it, I feel that I have failed socially. No one admits to foot fungus, no one talks about feet. Feet are just there. I clean the toe and finish the job. I can’t believe it could smell so distinct and disgusting, it wasn’t even that dirty or damaged any more.

I completed my task and moved the baby and dog out to the living room with me. Time to check the email. And as I was typing away, I could smell that same distinct odor. Augh, yuck. What have I done. Maybe I need a doctor or something. This is too embarrassing to take to the doctor. The doctor would chastise me and be completely aghast at the fact I couldn’t even care for my toes. “How socially inept you are,” he would say as he wrote a prescription for Lamisil or something like that. “We can’t have a flourishing society if the citizens have fungus feet…besides”, he adds, “no one loves, or dates people with toe fungus, it is just well …yuck.” What is this world coming too.

Instinctively I smelled my fingers. There it was, my olfactory was bombarded again. It definitely was reminiscent of some type of decaying matter. Then the dog came over. Great, my dog loves to roll in decaying matter, and fecal matter as often as possible. Here she comes to snuggle up to me. Then it hit me. The smell, it wasn’t my toes, it was my dog. I had rubbed her behind the ears when I was performing my pedicure and thought the odor was from my toe. When in fact it was from the lingering molecules of unnamed fecal matter on my finger from petting my dog. Now I can relax and claim my usual social status, that is as soon as I was my hand with Lysol.

365 Days Later

A year has come and gone since my first blog. Yesterday was Super Bowl Sunday and it was snowy and cold. The our neighbor across the street has the nativity up. However, I now understand the use of it, quite ingenious really. It transforms seasonally, becoming a cool old wrought iron bed frame flower bed in the spring and summer. I don't remember fall, I'll have to pay attention. No dogs this year. No football game either. But I did find a killer deal on a Macy's hand bag, Super Bowl Sunday only. Hmmm...maybe it paid not to watch the game.

By the way, we have the best bus system ever. Public transportation here rocks. For only $1, they pick you up at your door and drop you off at your destination. And it happens all in the shake of a lambs tail, and after living rural life I know what that really means--its like faster than saying in the shake of a lambs tail. Maybe the saying should be "faster than you can say in the shake of a lambs tail."