(You’ve Got Me Feeling) Emulsions

 

Opposites often attract, which in my case happens to be true. Nowhere is the disparity between our characters more obvious than the bathroom. The amount of cleansing stuff I have versus that of my husband’s is staggering. In the shower alone I have washes, creams, gels and potions for every conceivable part of the body – hair, face, body, hands, feet. He has the basics: soap and shampoo. That’s it. By comparison he makes me look like the most frivolous female on the face of the earth.

He’s hirsute by choice – the tactful would describe his look as lumbersexual, I prefer the phrase “heavy metal Jesus” – which gives him ample reason to get into the fun stuff guys get to use now. There’s no shortage of them. I’m forever showing him options for beard oil, beard balm, beard softeners, waxes, aftershaves, combs, shaving brushes made of badger hair. Guys have so much fun stuff to try out in this day and age, but he refuses to succumb to the siren call of the “trendy hipster.” I admire his fortitude. What is it with men and their ability to literally live without frippery?

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Agent Orange

I have a confession to make. I am an addict, enslaved to Cheetos. Anyone who’s willingly dunked their face in a wide-open bag of Cheetos will understand the sheer thrill of inhaling the scent of chemical flavouring.It is a horrible addiction to have, because no one wants to admit their world is ruled by Chester the Cheetah, but there you have it. It could’ve been coke. Crack. MDMA. Bath salts. Heroin. Prescription painkillers. Something, anything more high-brow, something with cachet, but no. It just had to be an easily accessible bag of cheese curls with orange powder. It’s got the same after-effects – the aftermath has me curled in a ball, hating myself and wanting to throw up. Curse thee, o fates! Curse thee, o willpower, that thou shouldst desert me in my time of need!

Phoning it In

If I was a movie character, I would be Sid from Toy Story. My things have a weird habit of burrowing into the bottom recesses of my satchel whenever I’m fishing around for anything like keys, a brush or a tube of lip balm. Inanimate objects tremble in fear whenever I move to pick them up. I’m klutzy, I drop stuff all the time and I’m not the best phone caretaker in the world.

It doesn’t start out that way, of course. Like all relationships, phone ownership always starts out with a ton of love, care and understanding. With a brand new phone, I exercise extreme caution, treating it like a baby – fed, burped, cleaned, prodded, cooed at every day. Every little bump and possible mishap elicits frantic apologies and maybe even a few neurotic kisses. It grows on me and then, as is usual in a relationship, things start getting taken for granted and the slow slide towards eventual destruction begins.

My first phone was a Nokia 3210. It was an awesome piece of work. Slim enough to slip into a back pocket, streamlined enough not to look like a tragic bar of soap, hardy enough to keep going for days on a single charge. These days, that kind of battery life is a myth. Anyway, I dropped it by accident way too often than was healthy, and it got to a point where it would literally fly apart each time it hit the floor. Its battery would be on one end of the room, the casing on the opposite side, the keypad somewhere under the couch. Took a licking and kept on ticking, that 3210. It was basically Chuck Norris.

It seemed prescient when Nokia announced they were bringing back their classic 3310. I was pretty stoked about this, because a return to “dumb phones” seemed like a refreshing change of pace. Being plugged in 24/7 can get exhausting. In my head I figured they’d dust off whatever boxes of phones they didn’t manage to move twenty years ago, and just offer those up for sale, but no. The new 3310 shares a passing resemblance to the old one, but this is not the phone of yore. It’s a pimped-out imposter dressed in a similar outfit. It’s got a camera, data capabilities and Snake, except Snake is now in colour.  I wanted the phone of yesteryear, no bells, no whistles, no rear camera, but I suppose nostalgia can only go so far.

Now, my Galaxy S3 is a few months shy of its sixth year and the truck driver who gives me a lift from work thinks my phone is a piece of crap. It’s certainly seen better days – beside the gleaming polish of his iPhone 6 it looks like a candidate for the junk heap – but I don’t care. I glory in the broken-downness of it. I complain about its stupid auto-correct and I think it’s gotten as slow as all get-out, but deep inside I love my S3. You know the moment you lose an iPhone 6S that you’ll never see it again but you can’t say the same for a cracked S3. (I wouldn’t be surprised if someone paid me to take it back.)

When it comes to tech, I apply the same strategy my father has for his house slippers: use it into the ground until it conks out, maybe try to resuscitate it with lots of duct tape and a prayer, then when it becomes painfully obvious that it’s given up the ghost, set it aside for the next big thing.  I’ve been fortunate in my choice of phones so far, but the end may be nigh.