Bo-Bo Knows Flotsam and Jetsam...take 2

This morning, Bo paced the hallway, lingering at the bathroom threshold, his eyebrows dancing the way they do when he's stressed. He had beach on the brain and his human ticket to a trot in the sand was cataloging junk she wished had washed down the drain with all her sloughed off skin.

Today I dove into my travesty of a linen closet. It's really more of an orphanage for all the things in my life that don't have any place else to go. Nestled in among the sheets, towels, light bulbs, cleaning supplies, and a pharmacy-for-two that could medicate a small nation, I found my long-lost Charlie Card (aka subway pass), my business cards, the rosary made from rose-petal beads I bought in Rome (complete with a trashy plastic case adorned with Pope John Paul II's grimacing mug), and a palm-size Ghiradelli tin containing three high-school writing medals I thought I lost eons ago. Apparently in one of the twelve moves I've made since leaving for college, these medals mingled with all the hair stuff I don't use (can we say electric curling brush, people?) and decided they were good, thanks. Clearly the rosary scores the what-the-hell-is-this-doing-here honors.

Anyway, here's what I'm happy to say goodbye to today:

• Number 13: Oil of Olay face cloths.
• Numbers 14: Noxema pump cream
• Number 15: St. Ives pore cleanser
• Number 16: Industrial-sized generic "mouth rinse" that I remember having in my linen closet two moves ago.
• Number 17: Nail polish remover
• Numbers 18: Rusty shower caddy
  
• Number 19: Deconstructed wire hanger. I cringe to think about the company this may have once kept.
• Number 20: Greyhound magazine. Proof that I'm a pet-store, magazine-rack sucker.
• Number 21: Plastic brush with hard plastic bristles. The iron maiden has nothing on the torture inflicted by "the tangler."
  
• Number 22: Plastic purple pick. This was Mike's instrument of choice when his hair was longer than mine. I still don't get it how it was useful.
• Number 23: Random button.
  
• Number 24: Turquoise scalp brush. Runner-up to the tangler.
  
• Number 25: Single white napkin. A waiter at a restaurant wrapped bread in it and sent it home with us for no discernible reason.
• Numbers 26: Goopy pen.
  
• Number 27: Stridex pads circa 1987. Remember Stridex?
  
• Number 28: White knit scrunchie. Remember scrunchies?
  
• Number 29: Purple plastic hair elastic. Please.
• Number 30: Cheap, white plastic banana clip that never really got the hang of holding my thin hair in place.
• Number 31: Fitted sheet circa 1972. This was one of my parents' wedding gifts. The set would be serviceable if Bo hadn't thrown up on the flat sheet at the start of a four hour trip home. We left the sheet in northern New Hampshire, so the fitted sheet can go, too.
  
• Number 32: No More Tangles spray detangler. I honestly think this might be the bottle I bought in middle school in response to the special brand of panic caused by the combination of spending the morning in a heavily chlorinated pool and the afternoon riding in a car with the windows rolled all the way down. This was the closest I ever came to dreads.
  
• Number 33: The "Easy Braid." A contraption designed to make French-braiding my hair a breeze. It did not.
  
• Number 34: Arbonne International Ginger Citrus sugar scrub. This was a part of a three-part gift I received from a client a couple of Christmases ago. According to the directions, I was supposed to use the scrub first, wash the oils away with the wash second, and follow the whole thing up with the body butter. The butter was love at first sniff--on the days I'm wearing it, I look for every excuse to get my hands near my nose. The body wash seemed pointless until I discovered it doubled as a bubble bath that smelled like heaven. But the sugar scrub was a big, sloppy mess. For those who have never had the pleasure, apparently a sugar scrub is equal parts oil and sugar so coarse it feels like you've traded your washcloth in for sandpaper. Even better, the oil coats you in a slime that makes water bead up on your skin. I reached for the body wash in a blind make-it-stop panic, but the slime layer was heartier than that! I'm pretty sure fancy scrubs are not supposed to be washed away with my favorite over-the-counter soap. This tub 'o fun can rest in peace.
  

Letting go of the sugar scrub has made me bold. Next I'll tackle the piles of make up I've accumulated despite my apparent allergy to making myself up. Like, ever.