My last post was rather macabre. I debated on whether or not I should even go there, but I’m glad I did. I can be a raging cynic, and it’s a great thing for me to be able to interact with cool people, and know that really, the Idiots haven’t taken over quite yet. The feedback I received was great, and you all give me hope.
Now, since I’ve opened up the proverbial Flood Gates of Un-Funniness, I might as well continue with something else that’s occupying one of my front burners.
I was reading something yesterday that got me thinking about memories and how we recall them. I think it’s fascinating that a seemingly insignificant, innocent trigger can instantaneously transport us back to some other time or moment in our lives. Particularly intriguing is the way a mere noise or smell can turn into a time machine, propelling us back to years past.
There are many things that trigger memories or give me déjà vu, and some really surprise me by doing so. For instance, when my daughter was a newborn I was sick with a cold and felt it necessary to wash my hands obsessively, every chance I could, with antibacterial soap. Did I just pick up a napkin off the floor? Better go wash my hands! Had to re-adjust my ponytail? Better go wash my hands! I went through what seemed like GALLONS of the soap.
Fast-forward about three years, and I’ve purchased some new liquid soap for the bathroom. The first time I use it, I’m washing my hands, and BAM! There I go, back in time to when my daughter was a newborn and I’m sterilizing bottles. I hadn’t realized it, but this was the same soap I had used back then, and it’s fragrance struck up powerful memories. I stood there at the bathroom sink, memories flooding my brain. I could see, through my mind’s eye, out the back window of my old house, sunlight streaming into the kitchen as I washed my hands.
What a trip.
Another thing that freaks me out is when I hear ice clinking in a glass. My stepfather, the bastard drunk that he was, had a personal bartender: me. He drank like a fish, and from about 8 years old on, he had me fixing him “cocktails.”
One Big Gulp-sized glass filled halfway with ice (cubed not crushed), filled halfway with Canadian Club Whiskey, then topped off with Diet 7-up = Cocktail.
Obviously, I was no fan of tending bar, and I hated the whole process. My stepfather had two methods of telling me he was ready for a “refill.” If I was in the room while he sat in his usual spot – on the sofa, watching TV, smoking and drinking - he would point the glass in my direction and shake it. Any remaining ice in the glass would clink, and this was his signal – the clinking noise. He would not make eye contact while he did this. He would continue staring at the television with his arm outstretched. The expectation was that I would stop anything I might be doing, take the glass from his hand, and immediately prepare another “cocktail.”
If I was not in the room, my stepfather used another method to get my attention. He whistled. The whistle was loud and shrill, and went up and down in tone, like the whistle someone uses to call a dog. The expectation was the same: I should immediately go to where he was, take the glass, and refill it.
Usually, I did what was expected of me. Once in a while, I would ignore my stepfather’s methods of “communication,” just to see what would happen. If I ignored the clinking ice, he would keep his arm outstretched and clink once or twice more before he would finally look over at me. “Fix me a drink,” he’d say, staring at me intently.
If I ignored the whistling, he would whistle once or twice more, sometimes making the whistle extra long, as if to say, “What the hell are you doing? I’m WAAAAITTTTINNNNGGG.” Finally he would actually verbalize and say:
“Heather! Get out here and fix me a drink! I’ve been calling you!”
Sonofabitch.
Oh, the fantasies I had of dumping his beloved cocktail all over his bloated body, smashing the Big Gulp tumbler, and then shoving shards of broken glass up his ass.
So, needless to say, hearing ice clinking in a glass puts me in a very foul mood.
And don’t ever try to get my attention by whistling at me, or I just may give you some kerosene-laced Carmex and then offer to light your cigarette with a blowtorch.
