One always needs soap

Sometime in the last few weeks, I was listening to National Public Radio and heard the tail end of a news story about luxury chocolate. It seems the business of selling high-end chocolate is doing very well, even as the economy is falling apart. You can buy a house in Detroit for the price of box of chocolate these days. If you don't believe me, google "house prices in Detroit" and then go to the Godiva website.

I can't eat chocolate, but I understood the reasoning behind the uptick in upscale treat sales. I learned about the importance of purchasing the occasional luxury soap at an early age from my parents. They both had a great appreciation for beautiful packaging and scent and moaned about the ugly boxes of equally unappealing soap in this country. When my father made a trip to Europe for business, he would come back with many bars of soap.

If you're under 40, you probably don't remember that once it was hard to get a nice bar of soap. Now, you can purchase luxury bath and beauty products in any supermarket.

I remember the lecture my father gave me about soap the first time we visited the large Caswell Massey flagship store in New York City. We must have spent hours in the shop, sniffing everything, just to buy one bar. That one bar of soap cost between three and five dollars. My father told me that good soap was a poor man's luxury. One could splurge on a beautiful fragrant bar of soap but it wouldn't break the bank. And, it would not only bring you pleasure each day, but one needed soap. You could buy a bar of Ivory, but it was far better to scrimp on other things.

I don't remember ever seeing a bar of regular soap in my family's house. When I first left home, Dial, Irish Spring and the rest of the supermarket brands were a new thing for me (and I must admit that I rather liked the scent of both of them).

Now, folks don't have to eat chocolate, but the idea is pretty much the same. Most people like to pamper themselves. I suspect men use another word, but I can't think of what it might be. Nonetheless, when times are tough, the desire to soothe oneself grows. There's a lot of anxiety in the air.

Some people eat chocolate. I put Kiss My Face lavender scented moisterizer on my hands. When we were in Williamsburg, I bought a few small gorgeously packaged soaps and was sorry I didn't buy more the minute we drove out of town. And like my parents before me, I would bet that at least one of those soaps will never be opened. They sit on display in my glass front bathroom cabinet along with an old bar of L'Occitane, which is just too pretty to touch. It did occur to me the other night that I could unwrap the soap very carefully and then put the empty wrapper in the cabinet, but that seems like cheating (or something I can't put my finger on).

I wonder how the sales of luxury soaps and such are doing. I bet they're fine, or at least not as bad as home and car sales (well, that'd be an easy feat).

Now I'm off to shower with a bar of Williamsburg Lavender soap. It most certainly isn't an authentic bar of 18th century soap, but I'm not complaining. Have you ever smelled a bar of soap made with lard and lye? It's appalling. The stuff is strong and probably can clean anything. But if Colonial Williamsburg was selling true reproduction soap, they wouldn't sell much, that's for sure.

Mosaic note: I didn't have time to make my own. Check out Mimi's beautiful mosaics on Flickr.

Lust

You see a picture of a bed. The title of the post is lust.

And what do I lust after? That bed. Nothing risque here. Move along, nothing to see!

Not that medical insurance makes any sense, but in the long run, it would save on doctor's visits and medication if people who have arthritis, fibromyalgia and similar ailments were helped with the expense of having an appropriate bed. But, then again, there's the fact that I can get an eye exam, but I have to pay for my glasses. I can understand that insurance companies don't want to pay for Armani frames, but if one can't function without glasses, isn't it a medical neccessity?

I suppose if everyone had a good bed, then the pharmaceutical companies wouldn't be selling as much Ambien and whatever else they promote for insomnia and pain.

I don't think it's a conspiracy, but it could be. Maybe we will discover that Big Pharma and Big Mattress are in bed together (no pun intended, but there it is). I bought a supposedly excellent mattress six years ago and after one year it was kaput.

It's awful, but I look at my bed and think "There's my personal hell." One reason I stay up late is so I can put off getting up in the morning. It doesn't make sense, 'cause no matter what time I go to sleep, I have to get up the next day, but these are the kinds of nonsensical things that people do when they're hurting. I'm not the only one. I've heard it all at fibromyalgia support groups. That's why I only went to two meetings.

When I did a google search for wool mattresses, I found an awful lot about "the ultimate luxury" embedded in between the information on why wool mattresses are healthy and comfortable. It occurs to me that the original target audience (pain sufferers) probably weren't supporting these companies well enough to keep them in business. I discovered that some upscale hotels now have rooms with these beds for clients who need them (and I'd bet that a night in one of these rooms costs nearly as much as a mattress).

Well, we all know that rich people can afford to take better care of their health. Before I moved to Maine, I thought dentures were only for elderly people. Not so! My rude awakening was when I was having a conversation with a girl in her twenties who had sparkling white teeth. I complimented her on them; they were so sparkly and nice. She said, "Oh, you can have them, too. All you need to do is have your teeth pulled!" Gulp. Toothless and twenty-something.

I grew up surrounded by wealthy people. My family moved to one of wealthiest communities in America when I was about seven years old. Before that, we lived in a housing project, where I was a fairly happy kid who loved to jump rope, read, draw and explore. After we moved, everything changed. Suddenly, I was in a world I didn't understand. I was teased for wearing the wrong clothes, or the same dress more than once in a week. I was confused by all sorts of things. Nobody came out into the street to play. The women I thought were mothers turned out to be maids. Silly me thought little Jane Doe had a black mommy who wore a funny outfit every day!

Oh, how I came to hate that town and everything I thought it stood for - greed, lording your good fortune over others, treating people badly simply because they're less fortunate than you. . . .this is one subject that I can't write about at all. Not with any coherency, that is.

And this post started with my desire for a mattress. My lust. Or is it covetousness? Whatever. I just want. Really, I should be grateful for the riches I have. A roof over my head, a car, plenty of food, a computer with the world at my fingertips! And my sofa is pretty darned comfortable to sleep on. See, I have a sofa! Some people live in tin shacks and sleep on dirt floors. Lots of people do.

Maybe I am much more of a typical American than I think I am.

Addendum: This is one of those times I'm thinking "should I delete this post?" Am I a sniveling whiner? In my line of sight is a magazine with a picture of Michelle Obama on the cover. Seeing her makes me think of how hard some people work in order to achieve. And their work and achievements aren't for nothing. They're for their children, their communities and, sometimes, for the world.

In the town in which I grew up, I saw many people who had attained wealth but who had little education. They only had the desire to make money and then, once that was achieved (though that work is never finished, it seems), they liked to show it off. People who couldn't pull themselves up by their bootstraps were losers and deserved their lot.

As much as I intellectually disagree with this idea, it is something I can't quite shake off. I do not believe that we are all born equal. Some of us are born into poverty. Some are born into wealth. Many talents are inherent. So are the things we consider deficits. Some kids can never learn to read or write and others will go on to get advanced degrees in physics, write or paint a masterpiece, or rob a grocery store.

My society tells me that I'm a failure at life. If I can't afford that bed in the picture, I should work harder. I've lead an odd life, I'd say, with ups and downs financially. Mostly downs.

I'm embarassed when confronted (in my own mind) with the success of my relatives and people I've known since I was young. I have more than a few talents. Why haven't I flourished?

I think back to a summer when I had a booth at the Full Circle Fair in Blue Hill, Maine (not your ordinary fair). I wove tartans at the time, beautiful heathered tartans made of Maine wool. Not only were my blankets beautiful and well-woven, but I had tags, brochures and all sorts of materials that were painstakingly designed and, yes, lovely. I can say with no false modesty that I had a great product and a great presentation. I sold nothing. Zero.

Down the aisle from me was another weaver, who was selling plain white blankets with a thin stripe of color in them. They were perfectly fine blankets. They had a brochure that was perfectly fine, too. But, here's the thing: they were taking orders for these $300 lap blankets like you wouldn't believe. I kept going over there and eavesdropping. The wait time they were projecting to buyers kept going up and up as the weekend went by. I got more depressed as I listened.

There was no sense in this. Objectively, I had a nicer product. I was nice and friendly (though I may been glum by Sunday late afternoon). In all likelihood, the other weaver's success started with a piece of luck: a single buyer who brought friends, a group of maybe-buyers who all arrived at once or the fact that it was a particularly hot weekend and the plain white blankets looked refreshing in the sun.

Now, I did become quite depressed afterwards. I was sure that the reason I lost money was that there is something inherently wrong with me. My childhood told me that I was a loser and life has given me plenty of proof that this is indeed true.

I fight against this idea every single day. It's a hard fight, that's for sure.

Phew. Long addendum!

You might not want to get too close to me

The discussion about eating meat (or not) got me thinking about other choices we make in our daily lives.

I've written about body odor, or lack thereof, before, in the entries Not Smelling American and the linked post, Smelling American. These posts were mainly about some crazy family history and perfume. Right now, I want to discuss something else about this subject.

Though I was traumatized (not kidding, read that post above) by my parents' rejection of the American standards of cleanliness, I have started to come around to their point of view, after many years. Even though most public spaces now have their "no perfume" rules, they also have an unstated "no smelling like a human being" rule. We may not be able to wear perfume, but we are obligated to be scented or unscented with products. The selection of scented shampoos, conditioners, hair styling products, deodorants and antiperspirants, body lotions, soap and specialized cleansers, toners, shaving creams and gels, and who knows what else, is staggering.

I used to feel like I couldn't leave the house without a shower. I showered every single morning without fail. In that shower, I would use a shampoo, a conditioner, a facial scrub, a bar of scented soap and a body scrub. When I got out, I would apply an anti-perspirant. I just had a shower, and I did use every one of these products, but here's the thing: I haven't had a shower for a week. You heard me correctly.

You may be horrified, I'm sure. I was a little embarassed writing the words.

Not taking a shower daily flaunts many societal norms. I hadn't realized just how many there were until I sat down and gave it some thought. I can't shave my legs or my armpits. I suppose I could do that in the sink, but then I'd be using quite a bit of water, so I might as well take a shower.

Actually, I haven't shaved my armpits since I was a teenager. I've done it at most three times. I think it feels horrible. I think it looks horrible, too. Most of my fellow Americans would disagree, especially men, but I don't care. When I was in a band, my fellow band members wanted me to shave my pit hair, or at least clip it. They thought it was disgusting. Pretty funny, considering they were supposedly punks and the name of my first band was, well, um, Disgusting.

I remember when a video came out for some German band, who did a song with the word "Luftballoons" in it, people complained about having to see the singer's pit hair. What an insult to our sensibilities!

What do you think armpit hair is for, anyway? It's there to keep our sweat from running down the sides of our bodies, amongst other things, but we don't need that (at least us women), 'cause we've got so much antiperspirant on.

I don't know how things are in France these days, but when I was young, I knew some French people and they thought that Americans were insane about their hygiene. We are. In fact, studies have started to show that our outrageously clean bodies and homes have created a society full of people with allergies. It's not other peoples' perfumes that are making you sick - it's that we're not exposed to enough germs!

Now, there's some days that I don't smell like nothing or like a zillion cleansing products. Those days I'm at home, sitting at my computer. Why should I waste water, and the electricity to make it hot, by showering?

What about most American's habits of washing their clothes after wearing them once? Unless you are a plumber or work in some other job where you are immersed in manure or other truly smelly stuff, you can't possibly need to wash your clothes after one wearing. Even your socks. Okay, maybe your socks stink, but at least make a judgment about it. Do they or not? If so, wash them. Or, you could leave them hanging outside over night and discover that they smell perfectly fine the next day. You think I'm kidding? I'm not.

Another thing I've started doing (as opposed to not doing) is sleeping in my clothes. I don't do this every night. If I know that what I'm wearing is going to be laundered the next day, I figure I might as well sleep in it. I keep my house cold, and sleeping in my clothes is a pretty good idea. Sure, I could put on some specialized sleeping garb, but that would create extra things to clean.

Sound extreme or crazy? Perhaps. But, as we are worrying about energy costs in America, we ought to be thinking about more than hybrid cars and windmills. I've heard not one person say a thing about the wastefulness of heating so much water for the daily shower most of us partake in.

We are humans and we smell. I don't appreciate it when someone smells bad, and I've been in more than one work situation where I've had to have a discussion with someone about their hygiene. So, I'm not "for" stinking to high heaven. But, as in everything, moderation is the key. Right now, I may be engaging in a bit of extreme behavior, for it's damned cold in my house and I'm home alone most of the time.

I assure you, if we get together, I will not offend you (at least not by my smell).

Photo courtesy of stirwise.

Sunday morning (sort of)

I'ts 9:11a.m. That's the new time, so it doesn't quite feel like the morning to me. I think, "Oh boy, I've got an extra hour."

So, instead of getting myself straight to my meditation cushion, I get on line, watch McCain on Saturday Night Live, read various posts about Joe the Plumber having a history of physically abusing women, decide to write a blog post, still haven't meditated, chew my nicotine gum too quickly. . .

In other words, as the old-timers would say, I'm hopped up.

I received invites for "write-ins" and can't imagine attending any of them (and I won't). I can't write fiction with other people around. Yesterday, when I started writing the "novel", I told Dick, at 1:48p.m., "At two o'clock I'm starting writing and you can not talk to me for two hours."

We live in a fairly large house. It was quiet, which is the way I need it when I'm writing ('cept for blog posts and e-mail). At some point, Dick must've watched a YouTube video or something. I could not concentrate. I remembered that there were earplugs in the bedroom, but that would mean I'd have to get up from my seat, and move away from the computer. I couldn't do it - it would break the spell. For two hours, I was completely immersed in my character and the imaginary community in which she lives. My main character, at present, doesn't have the liberty to move around much or get what she needs when she wants it, so I don't either.

So,I grabbed some earbuds, jammed them into my poor ears, pulled my hoodie over my head, and then further sequestered myself within a tent of a blanket. This didn't work entirely. I still could hear the sounds of whatever Dick was listening to, and I thought, "tomorrow - I'm using earplugs!"

Now, today is tomorrow, and I'm wondering about some pretty dumb things like whether or not I'm cooking dinner tonight and if so, can I cheat and use yesterday's leftovers. I'm also freaking out just a bit, for the election is in two days! I also wonder what the heck I'm doing sitting here blogging instead of meditating and worried that I'm going to have a hard time not thinking about my plot when I do get myself on that cushion.

I am also still thinking "I'm not a writer!" So what - I am having fun. If writing this so-called novel doesn't get in the way of living life, it doesn't matter what it's for or whether it's good. If it stops being fun, I'll stop (perhaps).

On a far more serious note, Dick just showed me a video on YouTube that I suggest you watch. Thought San Francisco was a nice place? Not if you're homeless.

Image note: Anonymous 15th Century Chinese book illustrationMonkey mind. I've got it bad today.

NaNoWriMo Update: 2014 words today. 5976 total. And still having fun!

Collecting rocks

Last week the girls next door were in my house. One of them was at the computer, e-mailing her summer camp friends. The other one had nothing to do, so I showed her my rock collection. She asked me,"Why did you pick this one?" And so, I told her exactly why I picked many of the rocks, what is was that I looked for that made it a "collection", and what made some particularly special to me. I didn't think much of this.

Later that day, she and her friend knocked on my door. "Come outside", she said, in an excited tone. On my table, outdoors, was a big collection of rocks. They had spent the entire afternoon looking (and collecting) rocks! She wanted to give them all to me, but I said "Why don't you keep them yourself?" and "Maybe your friend would like some."

The friend seemed awestruck. "Can I really have one?", she said. I told her she could have as many as she wanted, but she seemed too shy to accept more than one, as if I was giving her a really big present. She picked one small stone. My neighbor said, "But I thought you liked this one!" as she pointed to another small mottled gray stone. "Well, I do, but. . ." I had to argue, "Take it! C'mon!"

And so, both girls went away with a few small treasures. I still have a pile of rocks on my table outside.

Later on, I thought about this and realized just how special it was. In a fairly recent post I mentioned that I collected rocks when I was a kid and that I still do. It later occurred to me how important it was to show kids that there are precious things that don't have to be purchased. A simple walk through the woods can yield enormous treasures - beautiful leaves, seed pods, old bird's nests, lichens (with which you can dye things!) - the list goes on and on.

Sadly, it seems that this type of activity is yet another one of those things, like drawing pictures, that people put away when they become grown-ups, unless one has some sort of specialist's reason for doing it. So, many kids think that the really good stuff is the stuff that adults go out and buy, and that they have little access to.

And whydo we stop encouraging kids to draw and play instruments once they get near puberty? Ah, yes, one mustn't waste one's time on anything that one isn't exceptional at. At around the age of 12, this society starts to impose it's "get thee into a box" mentality on kids. What a shame.

Photo note: Some of my rock collection.

And yes, I'm still blogging.

Zaftig

Oy vay. The word "zaftig" is an American word. Here's the etymology: Yiddish zaftik, literally, juicy, succulent. Zaft, juice: Middle High German: saft, earlier saf, juice, sap + -ig, -y.

Well, now I know that I've been called "juicy" by relatives. Ick! But I'm guessing they hadn't a clue. They just thought they were using a nicer word than the American "chubby", which is slightly better than saying one has a lot of baby fat (and no one over six years of age can still have the cute form of that).

Last night, when I stayed up late (with one eye open) after mistakenly drinking a large cup of dark roast coffee thinking it wouldn't affect me (ha), I was thinking about how I used to be heckled by guys when I was young. I found it annoying and threatening, especially when I was hissed at.

Some years back, a friend mentioned how much she enjoyed going to Spain and Italy, where men would verbally harass her on the street all the time. She didn't use the word "harass", but I don't remember what word she used because I was so surprised. She actually enjoyed this attention?! Yes, indeed. In fact, she bemoaned the fact that now that she was in her thirties, she didn't get as much attention on the street as she used to. This perspective was a surprise to me. For the first time in my life, I thought "I might be a puritanical American".

Since I haven't lived in New York City for over twenty years, I hadn't noticed that I was no longer being harassed (or paid attention to) by strange men on the street. After hearing my friend talk about it, the next time I was in a city, I did in fact notice that noone said a word to me. I had become an invisible woman. And frankly, even though I may have felt less harassed, I realized that I had missed something terribly important. I had missed that I had once been a beautiful young woman. How sad.

Though I don't advocate yelling at women on the street (not in the least), I realize that I miss being wanted. Not by those strangers, no, not that. It's more of a general thing. When I look in the mirror these days, I think, "Who would desire that?" I sure wouldn't (and don't). Just as they say you need to love oneself before others can love you fully, I think one needs to find themselves their own sex object before one can be truly wanted. And if you think feeling desired is of no consequence, just wait until you're not and see how it feels.

Of course, in this society we do put too much emphasis on physical desirability. And people who are in long term relationships can see each other in ways that others do not. The elderly woman who's been married for fifty years, well, in the best of worlds, her husband still sees the young beauty he fell in love with long ago. At least that is what we all hope for, isn't it?

Last night I was also thinking about my mother. She had a full face lift in 1984, before it was all that common for middle class women to do this. She spend all her savings on that face lift, which I found most disturbing. The odd thing is that I do not recall if I saw her afterwards. She died that year due to a car accident. When I had to settle her accounts, she had less than five hundred dollars in the bank, not even enough to buy a plain casket. All that surgery had been for nothing, but how was she to know?

I judged her quite a bit for that face lift. I wondered why she couldn't accept getting old. And when she died, I thought that she was spared the business of becoming elderly, which I could not imagine her doing. My mother cared so much about the externals - clothing and weight. She regularly took people under her wing and gave them complete makeovers. She'd take dorky guys shopping, oversee their haircuts, give them advice on making witty conversation. And if they wound up with more dates, hooray!

I feel badly now, thinking that I felt my mother was spared, for I am moving into the same territory of age that she was having difficulty with. My mother looked far better than I at the age I am now, but that's because I haven't cared all that much about these things.

I have also harbored a delusion of pretty big proportions: Thinking that I was an unattractive woman, I figured I wouldn't notice the changes that middle age would bring. I figured there would be no sense of lost. Oh, how wrong I was!

Painting Note: Peter Paul Rubens (again). A portrait of his zaftig wife, Hélène Fourment.

Addendum: I don't know if it'll change by the time you get there, but if you click on the link for yourdictionary.com's definition of zaftig (not the one I used above), you will find something I found rather disturbing. There's ads for shoes, shoes and more shoes plus lots of pink ads for the movie "Sex in the City" and shoes, shoes and more shoes. There's got to be a diet link on there somewhere, but all that pink made me want to go away fairly quickly. And I do like pink, but just not in such large quantities.

Jeans update: This morning I realized the absurdity of a 5'1" woman wearing a pair of 38 inch jeans. I am not morbidly obese. If I think I'm actually hiding my fat by wearing these, I'm mistaken. Well, maybe I am, 'cause my neighbor said to me reccently after I declined a size 8 pair of pants someone gave her, "I can't tell what size you are - everything you wear is so baggy!" But the gals at What Not to Wear would have a field day with me (and I wish they would!) so I'm giving these jeans to Dick. Hope he likes them. (Note: I put the link to the show there, but I don't know if it's still any good: Trinny and Susannah are gone!)