When I'm cleaning dishes, I'm a little compulsive about what gets cleaned first. This might sound strange to those among my friends who know that I really hate doing the dishes. But, still. I have a method, okay? The plates go first, then saucers, bowls, spoons, forks, knives.
The knives are always last. They kind of scare me. I think about them the entire time I'm sudsing the rest. And yes, "sudsing" is a word. As I'm running the rag over each dish and each piece of flatware leading up to the cleaning of the knives, I glance over at them periodically. I memorize their placement on the counter so that I can formulate in my mind the correct way for my left hand to make its approach when it's their turn.
Here's how the approach usually takes place: The knife's lethal edge is faced toward the refrigerator (or toward my left) with the handle nearest to me and the pointed tip casting terror into the backsplash. My left hand is careful to grasp the handle and to carry the knife toward the rag in my right hand with the blade still directed at the refrigerator. That way the knife doesn't suddenly shred the offensive rag that dares to clean it and my poor, innocent right hand.
Well, it's not really that dramatic, but it is true nonetheless. I'm afraid the knives are going to get me. The worst of it, though, is that as I'm wiping one clean, I really want to find out if it's sharp. Is it sharp?
Beneath the harsh, downcast glare of light in a dressing room at the mall (my second-least favorite place to be, with the first being a visit to the "female doctor"), I tried on new clothes for the first time in many months. When I recently contemplated stealing a pair of my husband's pants in order to avoid this painful experience, I figured it was finally time to do something about the sad state of my wardrobe.
I don't understand what it is about the lights in those dinky, depressing stalls. While browsing the racks in the store, I might come across several things which, if flattering, could persuade me to plunk down my money. Yet, as I stand there beneath the buzzing light fixture with every hill and bump displayed in unflattering splendor, purchasing a piece of overpriced cotton is the last thing on my mind.
What went through their minds when they were installing those fixtures? They couldn't possibly believe that, through the course of the day, a person will ONLY be lit from directly above their heads. Can you imagine going through your entire day with your eyebrows casting an unrelieved shadow across your cheekbones? You might look vaguely like a neanderthal.
I finally settled on a pair of khakis and a polo. You can't really go wrong with that right? I'll think about the rest of my wardrobe another day. The ten minutes I spent with the Unflatterer, as I like to refer to that 20-watt, ogre-producing bulb, was more than enough to persuade me against another struggle with buttons, zippers, and built-in bras.
The phone on my desk with its tres chic, squishy shoulder perch (I call it "shoulder perch" for lack of a better term because it helps my phone to perch happily there on my shoulder) rang insistently. I was at work, so that meant I had a fifty-fifty chance of hearing an accent of some sort on the other end of the line. It would most likely be a southern accent and I wasn't sure if my name was going to be Honey today, or if it would be the more inventive Sweetie. Then again, it could have been a Dahlin' day. I never really know what the next call holds.
Today was a Honey day, and it was said with one of those sweet, feminine drawls that fairly drips through the phone.
She sounded like one of those fragile, gently-bred, silver-haired grandmothers. The type who, fifty years or so ago, might never want to get caught in public without her white "go-to-town" gloves, a hat, and a small clutch purse... maybe holding a newly laundered hanky for all those noses that run rampant out there. I know, I know! I'll stop describing what I think she might have looked like, because let's face it, I don't really know.
We talked pleasantly for a bit, and then I sat with my pen poised to jot down her address. The street and house number crawled through the line slowly, but without difficulty, though it helped that she spelled the street name for me. Then, we came to the city. Oooohhh, the city.
"It's Rock-en-ham, Enn Cee," she said.
"And that's spelled R-O-C-K-E-N-H-A-M, correct?" I said, already writing it down.
"No, Honey. It's Rock-EN-ham." She said this, not spelling it, just drawing out the EHHNNN so I couldn't possibly misspell it a second time.
"Ummm, okay. So it's R-O-C-K..." I trailed off at this point hoping that she would just naturally pick up where I left off. You see, I've learned not to just assume that I know how people spell their town names. I mean, she could be from a town where they spell phonetically and southern phonics are just different from the ones I know.
She didn't conveniently pick up my trail.
I tried again, "Would you mind spelling that for me, please? I think there's something wrong with..." my ears, I thought... "our connection."
"Sure Honey," she said. "It's Rock-en-ham. R-o-c-k-i-n-g-h-a-m. Rock-EN-ham." She said the last with a satisfied little flourish. I felt kind of silly as I wrote it down. I should have known that ehhnnn is spelled i-n-g.
I must say, I love that I don't have to call overseas to hear an accent foreign to my ears. All I have to do, is pick up my phone with its squishy perch apparatus, and dial Rock-EN-ham, Enn Cee.
Today, my son Beaux (pronounced Bo) made me very proud to be a mom. I used to hate it when parents always bragged on their kids, and I have to admit, I realize now it was just because I didn't get what it meant to be a parent.
