by Lad Moore
I should have never sold my Tupperware glasses in the garage sale, even though they were dishwasher-warped and the kids had chewed on the rims—turning the edges into a sort of make-do dental floss.
Read Lad Moore's lovely rendering of an ordinary event that comes back to haunt.
Pimento Cheese Tumblers
I should have never sold my Tupperware glasses in the garage sale, even though they were dishwasher-warped and the kids had chewed on the rims—turning the edges into a sort of make-do dental floss.
I realized my mistake when I broke a tiny water glass on the kitchen floor. It was one of my favorites because it only held three ounces—I am not into the eighty-ounces-a-day horror. It was also the kind of glass that explodes and scatters on impact, like summer rain on the freshly waxed hood of a car. Pieces scampered to the safety of the braided rug, and raced for the darkness under the dishwasher vent-thing. More agile fragments mounted the dust-bunnies and rode them completely out of the room.
First I swept the kitchen, applying the principle of the grid-pattern that was developed for archeological digs. Large chunks of glass were secured from potential after-shocks by locking them inside an empty Cool-Whip tub. Then I vacuumed and mopped—making sure the infected sponge head was hermetically bagged and tossed. I know to do this—despite the mop head’s penchant for lying about recovering from such cleanups. “I can be rinsed a couple of times and I am good as new,” it said. For a brief moment I paused, almost believing that $2.49 was worth the gamble.
Two days passed without incident, and the loss of that favorite glass and the cleanup trauma was but a fleeting memory. Then, before dinner dishes had been pre-washed in the sink, I located that last surviving sliver with the naked heel of my right foot.
I knew it would happen, even after promising myself I wouldn't go barefoot in there again until the statute of orphaned glass shards had comfortably passed. But I felt safe. After all, Muffy and Quigley did reconnaissance for me when they meandered to their food bowls, and neither of them turned up mysteriously lame.
I could feel the splinter of glass when I caressed the spot with a loving finger, but I couldn’t see or grasp its retreating and mocking tip. Surgery was clearly indicated. Doctors lie when they say that glass will work itself out. It only works itself near.
I probed the spot with a needle until my self-inflicted wounds escalated beyond those of the original injury itself. Profuse bleeding and a parade of forbidden epithets ended the operation without confirming if success had been achieved.
It is now months later. The spot of my summer surgery has hardened into a BB-sized kernel that is resistant to even the most aggressive of emery boards. The knot is ever present--and always first in line to announce that my newest shoes should have been a half-size larger.
Think twice about what you sell at your next garage sale. I do, with every step.
| 
