I believe I may have mentioned a few times (okay 10 or 20) that I’m attempting to write a 50,000 word novel in November. Last blog post brought you recycled poetry; this one will give you recycled humor.
Eleven years have passed since I wrote this 99% true account. Most mornings it is still true.
The Elusive Squeegee
PLACE: Anytown, Pennsylvania
TIME: Any Autumn weekday, ten minutes late
Juggling bookbag, purse, and travel mug of coffee, and followed by a grumpy ten year old, I stumble through the early morning fog toward my rusty, trusty Mazda. If we pull onto the northbound route within thirty seconds, we might arrive at his school and my workplace on time.
No! The windows are covered with dew.
I stash my burdens in the trunk and begin wiping down the side and rear windows with paper towels. “Help me, Ten! You do your side and we might get out of here before noon.” Alas, I have no garage, and my car is dew-covered every morning. If only I had a squeegee, I could zip that water off in seconds, and not deal with cold, soggy paper towels.
I am loathe to transfer the shower squeegee to the car. If I am ever not late, I like to use it on the shower walls. (Hey, it could happen.) How hard could it be to find another squeegee, anyway?
Usually the need to hunt squeegee only hits me as I dry the car windows. One evening my brain kicks into gear while in the grocery store, which offers a variety of brooms, mops and sponges, but no squeegees.
Picking up a prescription on another occasion, I search the pharmacy aisles. Shelves overflow with Christmas decorations in mid-October, but no squeegees.
My husband checks the auto department of America’s favorite discount store, but he finds no squeegees. Oh well, men can’t shop. He should have looked in the cleaning supplies section.
Several days later, while Ten picks through ghoulish Halloween accessories, I stalk the squeegee. I should have known a second rate store like this wouldn’t carry one. How about the third rate store farther down, where everything costs a dollar? If I want to blot the dew with a linen 2002 calendar, I am in luck.
Ten and I proceed to America’s favorite discount store, to accomplish what his dad could not. And for a very good reason: They don’t have any. I could possibly blow dry the windows with any one of a dozen models of hair dryers, some of which doubtless have auto adapters.
Like Captain Ahab, I am obsessed. The squeegee has become my Moby Dick.
After a Saturday morning walk to the post office, I enter an independently owned hardware store.
A clerk rushes over. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I hope so. I am Captain Brosius, and I hunt the elusive squeegee.”
“Down that aisle and to your right,” another cheerful clerk answers. The first clerk follows me to make sure I reach my long-sought destination.
I have died and gone to squeegee heaven. There are car-sized squeegees, truck-sized squeegees, RV-sized squeegees, armored assault vehicle-sized squeegees, and a squeegee I could use to clean cosmic goo off a spaceship.
I tenderly carry my treasure home in a brown paper bag, eagerly anticipating the new work week.
PLACE: Anytown, Pennsylvania
TIME: Monday morning, ten minutes late
Juggling bookbag, purse, and coffee, and followed by a shivering ten year old, I stumble through the frigid early morning air. The Mazda is covered with frost.
Does anyone know where I can buy a good ice scraper?