fear and palmolive? [34]

Assignment: Tell me about the first time you were scared

It was the first time I’d ever been left alone.  Completely alone.  My mom had to run up to the corner store for a quick minute and decided to leave me at the house.  I was terrified, and I have no idea why.  It was the middle of a summer day.  As bright as bright could be.  I knew she wouldn’t be gone more that ten minutes, but to me at that time ten minutes might as well have been a lifetime.  I was so scared that someone was going to come and kidnap me that I laid in the middle of the floor of our living room spooning our amazing yellow lab, Chammy.  For some reason, whenever I was truly scared, that’s what I would do.  Most kids had some kind of security blanket–I had a dog.  I remember just laying on the floor clutching to Chammy’s fur with my eyes squeezed tight trying so hard not to listen to every little sound I heard which I’d inevitably convince myself was someone climbing the porch stairs to take me away.  I wished and prayed form my mom to just get home.  Come home now. Come home now. Come home now. I chanted into Chammy’s fur.  Finally, I heard the garage door open.  She was home.  I was safe.

Assignment: Tell me about a time you washed the dishes
The bowl had been sitting in the sink for three days now.  I’d successfully ignored it.  And by successfully, I of course mean that I cursed it every time I walked by it.  It was half filled with cloudy water with egg floaters–her idea of letting it “soak” itself clean.  It stunk.  It looked disgusting.  I was not going to clean it.  It had to bother her as much as it bothered me, right?  How could it not?  Egg salad (as delicious as it is) smells bad enough when it’s fresh–never mind when it’s been stewing in water, rotting for three days.  I would make her clean it.  I’d build up my nerves and just tell her to.  Yes.  That’s what I’d do.  So I went into my room, called my best friend, and complained about the nasty rotting egg salad bowl.  Because that’s always the most effective plan of action, right?  Whine and complain to a person who has nothing to do with the situation.  The phone call was supposed to do one of two things: get me angry enough and allow some “ball growing” time to storm into her room and demand that she clean the moldy dish or allow for enough of an outlet that once vented out, I wouldn’t care so much about the stupid, smelly bowl and leave it be.  The phone call accomplished neither of those tasks.  All it did was piss me off even more so that I proceeded into the kitchen armed with a giant bottle of Palmolive dish soap.  I slathered it up, slammed it around, and washed it clean.  All the while holding my breath and asking questions out loud like “How hard is it, really?  How hard is it to simply rinse a dish out? Huh? Huh?”  Hoping in my passive aggressive attempt that she would hear me through the wall and get the point without any real confrontation.  I hated confrontation.  But then she emerged from her room, a sweet smile across her face.  Damn.  Guilt and regret instantly flooded my veins.  Sheesh.  It was just a dirty dish.  It wasn’t that big of a deal.  I’m such a jerk.  So I flashed a big bright smile.  “Hope you don’t mind, I decided to wash your bowl for you.”

About JoElizabeth

I am a writer who loves to explore all different types of relationships. I am most happy when surrounded by my loved ones and furry children. I've never met a stranger, and I talk way too much. My favorite things to do are eat {preferably at a restaurant} with good friends, write, watch DVDs of TV series {especially FRIENDS}, drink lots of coffee and learn.
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