We're pathologically social. We're professional leisurists. We're burrito lovers, bar flies, art whores and music nerds. We dish the good dirt, and we'll risk a parking ticket for a cheap sample sale. Sometimes, we blog drunk.
Ward on the Street: Desperate measures
I just wanted green tea.
I was waiting in a colossal line in a bustling Asian market, tea in hand, on Good Friday. Family after family hovered at the back counter near an exasperated fishmonger manning a vat of oil, which bubbled up with whole fish. Apparently, if you're looking to obtain a cardboard tray of fried fish—heads on—the Friday before Easter is a popular time for this.
The line for the cash register shuffled forward slowly, the atmosphere was thick with airborn fish fat and it wasn't until I left with my tea that it occurred to me: "I have to be somewhere in 20 minutes, and I smell like cod."
I did what any human with an olfactory sense and a diminishing level of shame would do: I went home, and I Fabreezed myself.
I stood in my kitchen in front of an open cabinet of Pine Sol and oven cleaner, Fabreeze in hand, and gave it a few tentative pumps. A wet mist of chemically springtime freshness settled on my face.
Did it work? It worked like magic. It was 100% effective in making me smell like your aunt's linen closet, which in this case was a welcome advancement.
I raced over to All Star Lanes to join a throng of comrades at the adjacent dive bar, where a spasmatic karaoke dance party was in full swing. I then bowled a personal best of 119. Was it luck? Chance? No, it was confidence. A confidence born of Fabreezing my head.
Shamelessly yours,
Miss Alie Ward
Miss Alie Ward
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