Dirty Soap

There is a lot to be said for a soap that smells good. There is a great deal more to be said for soap that don’t.

If the children’s shows, motherly exhortations, and hygiene courses I’ve been familiar with are all correct, we can be safe in assuming that the point of washing your hands is to make them clean. Rid of dirt, germs, and those other icky grimy things we don’t like to think about.

But what if the soap you use smells worse than your hands did before you used it? What if the subtle whiffs of that afternoon’s lunch of northwester coleslaw are a better alternative to the stark, powdery, elementary-school-nurse “flower fresh” aroma of the soap in the office restroom? Then you have a problem.

I had that problem last weekend. Feeling bloated and slightly shameful after a filling meal, I needed to wash my hands of all its reminders. But the soap was worse. Far worse. I clambered for a hand sanitizer in the car, but the only one I could find was the one I knew smelled like hot dog juice--not joking. Finally arriving at my mother’s house, I squirted on a judicious amount of her almond-scented liquid soap, which mixed with the faux flowers to form a sickeningly stomach-turning concoction. My hands were worse than clean. They were dirty clean.

I once used a soap that smelled so nauseating, I literally locked myself in a bathroom stall and franticly rubbed my hands on my armpits to try and neutralize the stinging scent. Tragic. My underarms smelled more “clean” than the soap.

Folks, you don’t want to be where I have been. Carry a tested bottle of hand sanitizer with you at all times.

Drive-Thru Shame

I have a problem. I can’t for the life of me place an order at a fast food window.

I write for a living, so I like to think I know how to convey my ideas from my mind to those of others. But the minute I pull up to a fast food window, I become a bumbling, incomprehensible fool.

It often goes something like this: Over the crackling radio, the attendant says “Thank you for choswa wwawawo waazaorder?” and I answer “yes.” There is a pause, because I am (a) too embarrassed to be there, (b) too overwhelmed at the array of disgustingly delicious choices, and (c) trying too hard to cover up my shame by being funny in front of my wife to realize that this wasn’t meant to be a yes or no question. So we (the attendant and I) spend the next thirty seconds interrupting each other and saying “No, go ahead,” after which I spend a few painful moments asking questions about the products without actually saying their names (which for some reason feels even more embarrassing than being there in the first place). The charade is usually concluded by repeated requests for extra packets of sauces, etc, which are most often ignored.

By the end of it, my wife and I are either thoroughly frustrated or laughing hysterically, having driven the attendant one step closer to tearing his or her hair out and quitting without not even stopping to return their visor, polo shirt, or “Ask me About our Mega-Meat Meal Deal” button. This is probably why are given two fish fillet wraps with extra mustard and a rancid Caesar side salad instead of the spicy chicken sandwich and children’s meal without pickles and a Diet Coke (no ice) that we ordered.

I suppose that’s what my arteries and I get for going there in the first place.