You see, the Golden Child is back in town, and when he decides to grace us with what my dad sees as his beatific presence, all of us siblings are expected to drop whatever the hell we're doing and run home to spend several agonizing hours/days watching the Golden Child sip his Golden Child beers in his Golden Child shirt with his stupid best friend, who always tries to make out with me. (Alright, that last part was a total lie, but he'll never know because he doesn't read my blog. That'll teach him to be so unsupportive.)
Anyway, when I brought up my posting predicament this morning--because I live in 1985 and must have access to my laptop in order to post because I don't have the tools to do it any other way--this is what my very understanding dad said:
"Oh, sweetie. You're worried that your 3 readers will be disappointed that your post is a few hours late? Well, I'm one of them, and I'm totally fine with it. Now go get your brother a beer."
I sighed loudly to show my displeasure, but I didn't push it too far. My dad is always slipping us $20's, and I certainly wasn't in the mood for him to get pissed off at me and give this visit's $20 to the asshole Golden Child instead. So I just got up to grab my brother a beer.
When I opened the refrigerator and retrieved one, however, my dad stopped me. "Come on, Shay, isn't there a shinier can somewhere in there? The Golden Child doesn't drink out of dusty cans." He nudged my brother, and they rolled their eyes and snickered at my incompetence in grabbing a beer out of the fridge.
Anyhoo, without further ado, my planned post for this week:
Summertime Tips from Trashy Blog
About a week ago, I was outside chatting with my neighbor, Don. It was hard for either of us to focus on the conversation, though, as he spent the entire time waving his arms around his face, swatting at pesky gnats.
“Ugh!” he said, disgusted. “What the hell is up with the bugs this year?”
I shrugged. “You’re overbathing."
He stopped swatting for a moment to look at me, a puzzled expression on his face. “Huh?”
I rolled my eyes to show what a dumbass he was being. He wasn’t offended because this is how we communicate with one another. I’ve gotten more than my share of eyerolls from Don’s end, too.
“Obviously, Don, your bathing methods need some work,” I said slowly, as if talking to a child. “You’re spending way too much time in the shower.”
Don was watching me intently, hanging on my every word. Seriously, you guys, we’re outside together all the time watching over our young kids as they play. I talk to Don a lot. And even after all the stupid shit he’s heard me spew into the world, he still listens to me carefully as if I really might have something intelligent to offer.
Somebody should really tell him that I’m full of shit.
“I have a strict summertime policy, Don,” I continued. “I like to call it Pits and Privates. You only wash the necessary parts—and you use a bar of unscented soap. None of that body wash shit. You? You smell too good. The gnats eat that shit up.”
I watched Don nod thoughtfully as he once again began to swat at the gnats that were still swarming around his face. I asked God to forgive me for the little white lie I had just told—because Pits and Privates isn’t just a summertime policy, my peeps. It’s year-round.
I’d like to blame it on my kids and say that I simply don’t have the time for a thorough shower, but that would be another lie to stack on top of the one I’d just told Don—because my kids would be more than happy to watch a Phineas and Ferb episode while I luxuriated myself into a prune in the shower. But I choose not to.
The thing is, my peeps, I’ve never been a waterproof vibrator type of girl. And so to me, showers are just so boring. A total waste of time. I mean, I take one every day, sure, but it’s totally bare-bones.
Pits and Privates, one might say.
Don was peering at me closely, no doubt looking for dirt caked under my fingernails or a gray line of soot in a neck wrinkle. But none was to be found. I’ve got the shit down to an art, folks.
“But don’t you work out every single day?” he asked. “Like, hard?”
I nodded. “Oh, yeah, and I sweat balls when I do it. I just make sure I get into the shower immediately—before all the sweat has a chance to dry and the water can still easily sluice it off.”
Here’s the thing about words like sluice: If you throw them into a conversation every once in a while, people will assume you’re at least a little bit smart, and there’s a chance that that mistake on their part will override the stupidity of many of the things you’ve just said.
As was the case this time. Because Don nodded slowly, repeating, “Pits and Privates,” a few times quietly while gazing at a point somewhere off in the distance, obviously mulling over the logic of my “summertime” policy. “Hm,” he said finally. “You know, Shay, I think I’ll have to give that a try.”
I waved an arm through the clear air around my head. “Do you see any gnats around me, Don? No. Because I don’t smell good.” I thrust my head a few inches forward for emphasis while lifting my arms into a triumphant shrug, shoulders raised high. Don gave a slow smile and nodded like a bobble head in agreement.
I’ve been kind enough to share my advice everywhere.
Just the other day I ran into another friend whom I’d enlightened about Pits and Privates at a playgroup a few days prior. She had acted like she was disgusted, but I knew she was going to go home and try it.
When I ran into her again, we were at the local community center during a Mommy and Me percussion class. (Shut up.) She was across the room, but I caught her eye over the roomful of about 20 toddlers and their parents to mouth this, with hand actions: “I took a shower today and actually washed my whole body. And I thought of you the entire time.”
Yes, I had meant it to come out that way because we’re 12 and we love to say dorky, perverted things like blue balls and balls deep and basically any variation of balls and then giggle. But there’s something about saying it in a room full of people who are just trying to get their drumstick on—and, in the midst of the sentence, when you’re already balls deep and there’s no turning back, realizing that about 5 other moms are watching you—that embarrasses a couple of immature perverts.
Both of our faces turned bright red over the sea of moms and their kids—but again, we’re in middle school, and we simply couldn’t stop laughing. We laughed so hard that we cried and even got an evil look from the head percussionist, who was simply trying to show the kids how to slap out a damned beat. Then we continued laughing.
After percussion class was over, I made sure to seek out the 5 moms who had witnessed our silent conversation and explain Pits and Privates to them. I needed to save a little bit of face, as I’m a very upstanding member of society in our little town. (Holy shit, no I am not. Can you imagine??)
I really don’t think it saved a lot of face for me, but I’ll tell you what: I’m sure it’ll save those mothas a ton of time in the future. Because you mark my words…their shower habits are about to change drastically because of my little nugget of brilliance.
And so are you, my friends. So are you.