Today’s rant is about overkill. You know–too much of a good thing. We’ve all spent time at buffets or with unlimited salad and breadsticks. And that’s definitely too much of a good thing, especially when you’re sitting like a bloated toad in your car on the drive home, wondering why in the hell you thought it a good idea to have that last crouton/martini/bite of pie.
I didn’t learn the art of subtlety until around age 11 when those designer imposters perfume sprays came out on the market. You know the ones–Giorgio Armani in a yellow can that smells like a cat in heat. Or skunk piss. Either way, I needed this perfume because it was going to make my life better. Well, I hosed myself down in it like a cheap whore. On the way out the door to catch the school bus, my mom had a seizure from the amount of good scents in the air. When I hit the bus, students admired my new chic celebrity smell by staying a seat or two back.
Finally, when I got to school, one of my friends said the equivalent of, “Jesus, God, woman. Is that a two-day-old corpse from the church choir you’re wearing?”
So I went home and showered, a much wiser person. Now I smell better too, I promise.
Today I’m faced with other types of overkill–too many blackberries I need to convert to jam, too many bored kids and too many fights. Summer in itself is overkill. Twelve weeks off is too damn long, I’m sorry, School Board Members. We need 6 weeks off in the summer and 6 in the winter. Sounds like utopia to me.
I see overkill in those ellipses I blogged about early in the week. And in the glares from prissy mothers on the baseball field. Why are Halloween stores opening in JULY, for God’s sake? By the time the holiday arrives, we don’t give a damn about that perfect costume we skimped on groceries to buy.
The world wants us to be too much. Too skinny, too pretty, too full of rainbows and unicorns. I say we rise up and resist the excessive squirts of perfume, friends. Be yourself. For me that’s a small town girl who still takes advice about when I’ve gone overboard.
Except with vodka, folks. Then there is never such a thing as too much.