I was four, maybe five before I knew what a dustpan was. Of course, I knew what it looked like and what it did, it's just that in my house, it was always referred to as a savook. Although I've butchered the spelling, it's the Russian word for dustpan. Someone mentioned to my mother that a girl as intelligent and precocious as I was supposedly at that age should know what a dustpan's called. My mother responded just because she doesn't know what it's called in English doesn't mean she doesn't know what it is, and honestly, will my heart be broken if my kid doesn't get to clean?
Good points, all, and sometimes the word dustpan still slips my mind. This weekend I decided to give the apartment a thorough (well, semi - I am my mother's daughter, after all) scrubbing and couldn't find where I had stashed the...
Um, the, uh, you know I said to Mr. Boy, motioning with my hands as if somehow that would encourage the words to spill out into the air.
He looked at me, puzzled.
You know, the-- I made a sweeping motion.
He immediately understood what I meant.
You mean the shaboom!
...
Adolescents are secretive, and I was more secretive than most. I learned to not keep a journal and destroy notes before coming home from school. However, my mother could always get me to spill with a late-night game of gin rummy and a box of Franzia White Grenache. I'd wake up with a dry mouth and a pounding head, but the worst was the fear that I had Spilled My Secrets. I don't know what I was busy hiding at 15, but apparently it was important at the time.
I'd like to say that that prepped me for my impending life as a Secret Agent, but all it really did was build up my tolerance to alcohol. However, I unintentionally partook of the same tactics last night, as Mr. Boy and I headed to one of our favorite haunts for Sunday Dinner to celebrate my tax return. As I was driving, he had the lion's share of our bottle of wine and I dabbled in the collection of evidence.
However, in this case there's nothing to be afraid of.
