Sarah Elovich
Sarah Elovich
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My alarm clock

5/26/2015

 
My alarm clock is an annoying cluster of sorority girls, hovering just on the other side of my bedroom door. They are bedazzled and bejeweled, jingle-jangling from head to toe with cheap bling and poor taste and social pressure. They wear too much perfume - cloying vanilla that will climb in your nostril and lodge in the back of your throat.

They’re standing out there, listening for their cue, their swollen feet jammed into shiny pumps two sizes too small for their porky feet. They shift their weight in anticipation, from one sweaty, stumpy foot to the other, covering their tittering mouths with pudgy fingers, tipped with acrylic nails that match their outfits. Little pig noses sniffing upwards, they grunt with excitement as the time ticks closer.

They can’t contain themselves now - they bump and jostle into each other, smashing flesh into door jamb. One of them claws another’s face, this one smashes down on that one’s ankle.

Snorting and grunting and jibber jabbering and jingle jangling they crash through my bedroom door in a frenzied, blonde panic, babbling incoherently about keeping up appearances and grade point averages and the Cuban missile crisis and dating website profiles.

Two of them are up in my face, breathing their pig breath into my eyes and ears - two more have flung open my closet and are tearing through, screeching, “Nothing to wear! Nothing to wear!”

Two more sisters come barrelling through and are at the foot of my bed, listing off all the things I didn’t do yesterday. They flop on the bed, scratching and clawing their way closer to my head, pinning me down under the sheets, prying my eyes open and poking my face with their candy-apple-red fake nails.

It’s a squealing chorus of urgency and ego, they’re chanting, “Me! Me! Me! Pay attention to me! Feed me! Bathe me! Me! Me! Me!”

Then they all turn their lumpy faces towards me and shake their jingle jangles at me and hike up their sorority skirts and snort, “GET AAAAAAHP!”

I’ve never been a morning person.

Follow-through

5/15/2015

 
Picture

Brutally Honest Review: Clorox Scrub Singles in "Rain Clean" Scent

5/6/2015

 
As I knelt on my bathroom tile, I surveyed the job in front of me. My shower featured a familiar pink residue under the standing water. The sink itself wasn't it bad shape, but I was eager to attack the chrome finishings with something that promised to be both strong and gentle. I sighed. Strong and gentle. A girl can still dream. With that, I reached for a box that promised to bring me closer to a squeaky clean inner and outer experience: the Clorox Scrub Singles 12-pack in Rain Clean scent.

I love the smell of rain. Rain is renewal. A fresh start. Someone once kissed me in the rain. My first kiss. After many months of yearning, it was a sweet surprise, under a maple tree one night in early spring. I was cold. He gave me his jacket. The whispering of water droplets on leaves, the slowness of time. The sweet not knowing. Perhaps that optimistic part of me is energetically still there, under that tree in that frozen instant, waiting for that kiss. Tenderly, I opened the box of Scrub Singles, a teenager again in those first hesitant moments of discovery.

A strong, artificial musk scent smacked me in the face. Neither rain-like nor clean-scented; these single-use scrubbing sheets threw out a cloud of odor closer to that of a desperate teenage boy’s armpit. Drakkar Noir? Axe Body Spray? Something unnecessarily forceful. The scrubbing sheets? They seemed to work reasonably well. The woman in the commercial uses her bare hands, but these things are loaded with all kinds of chemicals that I’d never want on my skin, not to mention that God awful fragrance. I had to really scrub hard in certain areas; there is nothing magical about this product.

My bathroom certainly looks cleaner. However, the odor I’m stuck with smells nothing of rain, nothing of purity or innocence. Perhaps the chemical pheromones were formulated to trigger some kind of socio-economic release in in me, allowing me to yield domestic control to a disposable sanitary wipe. Unfortunately, the concoction only served to remind me of a different rainy night, when my crush would reach for my bra strap and call me a tease. My shower is scrubbed down, but even now, days later, my bathroom smells as inappropriately threatening as an Abercrombie and Fitch. My bathroom might technically be clean, but now it just *feels* dirty.

    About Sarah

    Sarah Elovich is a writer and performer based in Oakland, CA.

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