LJ Idol Week 2: Uphill, both ways, barefoot.
Growing up, the mantra in my house was “don’t cry over spilled tea”. That’s because I didn’t drink milk. This didn’t matter though, it was quickly discovered that an aspiring klutz did not need to drink it to spill it. In fact, spillage did not even require an open container.
One Sunday afternoon, I used my tiny hands to open the refrigerator door in order to return the ginormous gallon-sized tea pitcher to its designated nook on the middle shelf. As the pitcher approached its rightful spot, it brushed against the shelf on the side door. This brush-up resulted in a dull thud followed by what sounded like the collapse of the Berlin Wall. Only the clamor of the wall was more of symbolic one. The actual destruction took weeks. There is nothing symbolic about a refrigerator.
The entire shelf with everything on it plummeted to the kitchen floor within seconds, once again proving the accuracy of The Big Bang Theory (if something big goes bang it will continue to expand into a mess)! This meant a white shelf split apart as it hit the kitchen floor, surrounded in a growing puddle of milk and orange juice that happened to leak from their respective containers. The juice and milk blended together so well, it almost appeared as though Humpty Dumpty himself had another great fall.
What happened next was The Great Cleanup of 1995. One towel at a time, the entire roll of absorbent squares made of paper pulp soaked up the brunt of the destruction. Then, the mop reinforcements came marching in. Doused in bubbling blue soap and warm water, the mop glazed over the entire area of sticky schnunk. My mother taught me how to apply elbow grease to rigorously rid the tile of the sour kitchen culprits. Of course, this cleanup was not quite efficient enough. Fearing any microscopic particle of milk would lead to an Ebola Virus outbreak, my mom sprinkled green Comet over the floor and we scrubbed. And scrubbed. Apply water. Absorb. Scrub. Scrub. Water. Absorb. Repeat.
Nearly fifteen years later during last year’s Christmas dinner, a bottle of red wine was spilled. I was mentally preparing for the towels, mops, and sponges to come marching in. But they did not.
ShamWow did.
And it wain't (past tense of ain't) “no big thing but a chicken wing.”
One Sunday afternoon, I used my tiny hands to open the refrigerator door in order to return the ginormous gallon-sized tea pitcher to its designated nook on the middle shelf. As the pitcher approached its rightful spot, it brushed against the shelf on the side door. This brush-up resulted in a dull thud followed by what sounded like the collapse of the Berlin Wall. Only the clamor of the wall was more of symbolic one. The actual destruction took weeks. There is nothing symbolic about a refrigerator.
The entire shelf with everything on it plummeted to the kitchen floor within seconds, once again proving the accuracy of The Big Bang Theory (if something big goes bang it will continue to expand into a mess)! This meant a white shelf split apart as it hit the kitchen floor, surrounded in a growing puddle of milk and orange juice that happened to leak from their respective containers. The juice and milk blended together so well, it almost appeared as though Humpty Dumpty himself had another great fall.
What happened next was The Great Cleanup of 1995. One towel at a time, the entire roll of absorbent squares made of paper pulp soaked up the brunt of the destruction. Then, the mop reinforcements came marching in. Doused in bubbling blue soap and warm water, the mop glazed over the entire area of sticky schnunk. My mother taught me how to apply elbow grease to rigorously rid the tile of the sour kitchen culprits. Of course, this cleanup was not quite efficient enough. Fearing any microscopic particle of milk would lead to an Ebola Virus outbreak, my mom sprinkled green Comet over the floor and we scrubbed. And scrubbed. Apply water. Absorb. Scrub. Scrub. Water. Absorb. Repeat.
Nearly fifteen years later during last year’s Christmas dinner, a bottle of red wine was spilled. I was mentally preparing for the towels, mops, and sponges to come marching in. But they did not.
ShamWow did.
And it wain't (past tense of ain't) “no big thing but a chicken wing.”