Tuesday, February 18, 2014

Mama wants her fancy, please

Before I leave this Earth (subliminal message: mothership returns), I wish that I could be "fancy."

Even though I am not rich, and don't live in a fancy-shmancy house, I have moments of female fantasy and delusions of decadence where I raise my head high and declare, "Mama is gonna raise the bar! It's time to fancy up this place!"

First, I must disclose that I live in a house with guys.  Married a guy; had three sons.  Do you realize that all the estrogen has been leached from my body by this collective cohabitation?  Around age forty, I began to realize that I was functionally neuter to them at that point.   Over the course of my life, I had fully made the transition from tom-boy to tom-mom - but I was girlie in between, I swear I was!

I know there are women who have pretty items in their homes just because they liked them, or they thought they went well with their decor.  My guys kill girl dreams of decorating.  They look at those items and say testosterone-laden things like "Why do you need that?" or make statements which cast my pretty things in a bad light, like "What does that do for you?'

One of the places where I thought I had secretly made some feminine headway was the bathroom.

It started simply enough: After a visit to our local craft shop, I came home with handmade soap balls.  You know the kind - high priced and full of essential oils and herbs.  Heaven.  Placing them in a soap dish (that I made in pottery class...even more fancy), I confess that I began to feel fancy-empowered.  They were pretty and the smell was just amazing.  It was a mixture of rosemary and mint and I lingered over each hand washing, inhaling the airborne fanciness of my purchases.

When you love something, it's sort of a kick to have everyone love it, too.  It's gratifying.  So I pointed to the soap balls and queried the men:  "How do you like those?"

"What are they?" was the response.

"Soap balls, " I replied.   They looked at each other and rolled their eyes.  Gratification killed on the spot, Mom.

Over the next week, my small dish of "fancy" in my home began to change shape quite literally after repeated use.  Now the guys referred to them as "soap biscuits" and snickered.   Someone was making an effort to smash my rosemary mint wonders from biscuit to pancake.

Then came the day when I was the one looking at my soap dish and asking, "What's this?"

All too soon, they were gone.  The soap balls were a gloppy puddle;  apparently a hole or two in the soap dish would have done a world of good...if someone would tell novice potters that key piece of info.

"It's like the soap got sick and barfed," said the shoulder-surfing Neanderthals, chuckling to themselves.

Ha. Ha. Ha.   

Somebody is going to find fancy pink, floral sheets on their man cave bed, 'cause nothing says "teenage boy sleepover" like pink, floral sheets.  I'll take my fancy where I can get it.

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Love, Cherdo