Soak My Hospital Gown in Awapuhi, it’s Summer in Memphis

The other day I wrote of the memories triggered by sound. Today I tell the tale of memories triggered by scent. The smell of Paul Mitchell Awapuhi Shampoo reminds me of being in Jamaica when I was 12. Drakkar Noir reminds me of my first dozen (or so) boyfriends. Coconut reminds me of happy sunny beach times (ages 10-present). Burnt oil over gasoline and dirt sends me back to the Livingston County Figure 8s. Jasmine and Honeysuckle remind me of the hilly walk to Dodger games. And the smell of hospital gowns reminds me of terrible horrible smelly barfy times.

I had to put on a gown yesterday (to get an ultrasound of veins in my arm) and as soon as I lifted the shapeless country-kitchen-hued fabric to my body I smelled it – the smell of high-pressure industrial rinse, alcohol swabs, latex gloves, and the remainder scent of hundreds of sick bodies trapped in flocked cotton. Ooooh eeeww. What a smell. I nearly tossed my cookies on the spot. It’s a good thing the ultrasound tech was an anti-social mute - I had something to focus my hatred on. Her makeup was the icing on a hostess cupcake. The yellow ones.

Turns out my veins are full of red gold and everything is pumping like an oil rig in the Gulf so I continue on my path to eventually getting institutionalized for phantom migraine auras with no known cause. At the very least I take comfort in knowing that you can wear your own pajamas (and not hospital gowns) in most looney bins.

Another thing on my mind is the upsurge in people riding in the backs of pick-up trucks now that the weather has gone from sunny to fire. Save full exposure for hayrides or convertible Miatas people. It is uncomfortable to get caught at a red light or in thick traffic behind a bunch of dudes looking right at you, truly worse than a school bus full of teens traveling from a band competition. Teens are easy, you can ignore them or toss your hair or flip them off or wave your Chauncey Billups bobblehead out the window so they will have something to text about for days. The white t-shirted dudes in the back of a F-150 are another story. Their only interest is leering and they don’t care who knows it, “I’m standing up in the back of a pick-up truck – yeah- whacha gonna do bout it. Might do some lawn work. Might have a drank.” You know the look. It’s the look of early summer in Memphis.