Thursday, January 6, 2011
I have paid for my house, or contributed towards its payment, I have painted its wood, mowed its lawn, and washed its windows. I have, for over thirty years, added my sweat and equity to this house in which my wife and I have lived. And she has turned out rather nicely, if I do say so myself.
Yet . . . yet, when I am searching, in this modest little house of ours, for a bar of soap, a simple, little bar of shower soap -- I can find not a one.
Oh, we have soap. We have soaps in many colors and shapes. Soaps wrapped in fancy papers, bearing fancy names. Some even wrapped in rough, corrugated paper with hemp bows tied around them. Impostors. Wolves in sheep clothes. I do not want these soaps.
I do not want to smell like oatmeal, or wheat, or honeysuckle, or shea butter. I do not want soap made from goat's milk or peaches. I do not want sand, or salt, or pieces of maple bark in my soap, and I certainly do not want lavender. But, right now, in my house I find all of the above and not one that bears the old names in which I am familiar.
Dial, Irish Spring, Zest . . . oh we few, we happy few . . . I know you are out there somewhere . . .
Labels: Essay: Humor