MrsSpaceship
Well-Known Member
My name is Mrs Spaceship, and in the odd chance you are wondering the origin of said name. I was dubbed this by my husband’s gaming friends (quite the honor in my opinion).
I reside in the Midwest, nestled in the shadow of the Wasatch Mountains, and my relationship with soap began as a child when my mother (herself a child of the great depression) presented me with a large tub full of soap chips to be melted down into new bars.
I remember adding water and stirring and stirring over the simmering stove. My child mind concluded that by adding more water I could produce the sheer luxury of a liquid soap. I was rather disappointed when I was only capable of achieving a rather slimy and gelatinous soup that gradually hardened entirely.
My young adulthood involved carving Ivory soap, occasionally eating it, although not of my own volition. Then adulthood arrived and the sole purpose of soap was to clean, and bottles of liquid replaced all the bars. Facial bars would make an occasional appearance, but for the most part, the soap of my childhood was but a residual memory.
Then, a year or so ago, my husband got tired of disposable razors and ordered an old fashioned safety razor. I must admit that I questioned his sanity. You see, those implements of doom and despair are what I learned to shave with. I blessed the day when my own funds meant the end of razor burn and cuts and graduated from that to single, then double and (gasp) triple bladed disposable razors. I reveled in my cans of air propelled white lather, scented delicately with the tears of fairies and unicorn farts. All that aside, after gentle admonition, I decided to save my ‘I told you so’ and let my beloved learn his own lesson
The razor arrived, and with it a shave brush and bowl as well as a cream colored puck of hard soap scented delicately of spice and musk. With a hollow thunk, the soap was dropped into the bowl, his wet brush set to work scrubbing circles, the soft “shush shush” sound became more and more muffled as an amazingly rich lather gathered volume. After carefully applying it to his damp face, we took a combined deep breath as he lifted the razor to his cheek. . . . He has since thrown out his electric razor, and the only disposables in the house are mine. He is fascinated with the art of shaving while I am . . . well, I am fascinated with soap.
I reside in the Midwest, nestled in the shadow of the Wasatch Mountains, and my relationship with soap began as a child when my mother (herself a child of the great depression) presented me with a large tub full of soap chips to be melted down into new bars.
I remember adding water and stirring and stirring over the simmering stove. My child mind concluded that by adding more water I could produce the sheer luxury of a liquid soap. I was rather disappointed when I was only capable of achieving a rather slimy and gelatinous soup that gradually hardened entirely.
My young adulthood involved carving Ivory soap, occasionally eating it, although not of my own volition. Then adulthood arrived and the sole purpose of soap was to clean, and bottles of liquid replaced all the bars. Facial bars would make an occasional appearance, but for the most part, the soap of my childhood was but a residual memory.
Then, a year or so ago, my husband got tired of disposable razors and ordered an old fashioned safety razor. I must admit that I questioned his sanity. You see, those implements of doom and despair are what I learned to shave with. I blessed the day when my own funds meant the end of razor burn and cuts and graduated from that to single, then double and (gasp) triple bladed disposable razors. I reveled in my cans of air propelled white lather, scented delicately with the tears of fairies and unicorn farts. All that aside, after gentle admonition, I decided to save my ‘I told you so’ and let my beloved learn his own lesson
The razor arrived, and with it a shave brush and bowl as well as a cream colored puck of hard soap scented delicately of spice and musk. With a hollow thunk, the soap was dropped into the bowl, his wet brush set to work scrubbing circles, the soft “shush shush” sound became more and more muffled as an amazingly rich lather gathered volume. After carefully applying it to his damp face, we took a combined deep breath as he lifted the razor to his cheek. . . . He has since thrown out his electric razor, and the only disposables in the house are mine. He is fascinated with the art of shaving while I am . . . well, I am fascinated with soap.
