Raw Drip

Today I walked in on Dick looking for something in our bathroom.  Since he had stumbled upon the shelf where I keep all my “feminine” paraphernalia I knew the poor bastard must have been terribly lost.  

“Looking for something?”, I asked.

“Yeah.  Do we have soap?”

“Ah, that would explain the odor…”, I joked.

“Not bath soap. I know where that is.  I mean a bar of soap for next to my sink.”

“What about the one I just gave you?”

“I don’t like that one.  It hurts my hands.”

“What?  It hurts your hands?  Have you thought about adding water to the mix?  A crazy idea, I know…”

Dick grimaces and rolls his eyes.  ”There are, like, little rocks or razor blades in it or something and by the time I can work it into a decent lather, nearly all the flesh on my hands has been removed.”

My turn to grimace and roll my eyes.  ”Perhaps you don’t recognize a high-quality french milled organic oatmeal & honey soap from Williams-Sonoma, you cretin. It came free in the box with those new sheets we ordered, remember?  I bet it’s, like, a $35 bar of soap.  You should be grateful I allowed you to have it.”

“Well, I don’t care how much it costs, it’s like rubbing my hands on 40 grit sandpaper.  Can’t I just get a regular bar of soap – please?”

Ugh.  Here we go again…

*****

Before I loop back to the rest of this little soap opera, let me give you some background on our complex relationship – with skin cleansers, that is.  

I don’t like to use anything one might mistake for a “regular bar of soap”.  I have extremely sensitive skin, prone to mysterious rashes usually linked to the dyes, alkaloids & perfumes found in traditional bar soaps.  So over the years, when I stumble across boutique brands of soap that contain fewer chemicals and are truly moisturizing & non-irritating, I tend to stock up.  This means our soap supply is an elaborate stash of stacked paper & raffia ribbon-wrapped natural soap slices in various blends of sumptuous scents & organic ingredients.  All of the selections of delicate soaps overwhelm Dick who is completely helpless if forced to locate, identify, unwrap and then use a fresh bar of soap.  The entire process is so intimidating for him that I often remove any used soaps from the bathroom before I go out of town on business and leave him with one, unwrapped, fresh bar in the shower so he doesn’t panic and buy some Ivory. 

As if acquiring new soap weren’t confusing enough, I also tend to alternate days between using an exfoliating bar of soap and a moisturizing bar meaning there’s often two or three bars of soap in the shower at any given time.  This confuses Dick, who, instead of trying to figure out which bar is okay to use, simply resorts to showering with dandruff shampoo or the children’s Mr. Bubble bubble bath.

The great soap debate doesn’t end in the shower, either.  Liquid soap is also controversial in our household. At my bathroom sink, I’ve found that Method moisturizing liquid hand soap does the deal without being overly drying or irritating.  Of course, when I bought Dick his own bottle of Method for his sink, all I heard were complaints about how the dispenser “spurts goo” into his hands and then leaves a “slimy film” that takes “hours of scrubbing and rubbing to rinse off”.

I met his complaints with female logic.  ”That’s not a slimy film.  Those are essential oils.  Once you’ve lathered, just a simple rinse and gentle pat dry on a clean hand towel is all that’s required. The remaining moisture will be absorbed by your skin.”

“I don’t want my hands to be moisturized. I want to give them a good, clean scrub with a nice lather – rinse, and then move on with my life.  I don’t have time to wait around for stuff to absorb.”

The debate raged on over the 8+ weeks it took him to get through his bottle of hand soap.   To drive home his point, there was rarely a day that went by that I didn’t hear about how he couldn’t complete some menial household task because he was still waiting for his essential oils to absorb.  Requests for help with a screaming child in another room were met with the reply, “I’ll be there in 20 minutes.  I’m still trying to rinse the slime off my hands.”

Eventually, all the melodrama wore me down and I replaced the hated liquid hand soap with a bar – in this case the free, fancy, french stuff that came with our clearance sheets – which pretty much brings you up to speed on my soap dish.

*****

“No.  You cannot get a regular bar of soap,” I insisted.  ”Because I love & care for this family and we all have sensitive skin, I don’t want us exposed to any scary, harsh chemicals.  You’re going to have to let it go, quit all the whining and either use the organic liquid hand soap or the fancy, exfoliating bar soap I keep on hand.”

“You don’t want us exposed to scary, harsh chemicals?  That jar of $100 anti-wrinkle stuff you slather yourself with morning, noon & night claims to alter your skin’s DNA.”

“Listen, those chemicals are for the greater good.  They keep my skin looking good enough so that people think you’ve married a much younger woman and I don’t frighten the neighbors or small children if I go out of the house without make-up on.  Don’t even try to throw out the chemical card, buddy.  I read Allure magazine and am a gold-level Sephora Beauty Club member.  You’re out of your league.”  I crossed my arms and fixed my gaze indicating that I would not be trifled with by the likes of someone who would use dandruff shampoo for bathing.

“Fine.  But that soap is practically de-fleshing my hands by the time I’m able to work it into a good lather,” Dick pleaded. 

“Who are you, Goldilocks?  First the soap was too soft, now the soap is too scratchy.  Unless you’re going to quit your job tomorrow and pursue a lifelong dream of being a hand model, just cope with the soap, you dope!”

In the face of my obstinacy – issued with stunning alliteration – Dick abandoned his quest for new soap (Ha! As if he can find things, anyway…) and went about his way, no doubt plotting a way to smuggle in a bar of Dial the moment he thought my back was turned.  

Curious, I went over and ran my fingers over the remaining sliver of free, french-milled, organic fanciness that lay next to his sink.  It was a bit scratchy – yes – but not in any way that was terribly uncomfortable.  Besides, the lovely fragrance emitted from the soap – a subtle blend of lavender, with muted warm, earthy notes of oats & honey – made his less than tidy sink area, feel a wee bit civilized.  Just the smell of it was a tiny victory for me.  I may not be able to civilize the man, but the bathroom – that’s my turf.