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The observer
Jan. 31st, 2009 07:55 pmBack at Quest yesterday. We got a couple of cases of yogurt and sour cream because one unit in each case had been damaged. I washed yogurt and sour cream off the good ones and priced them. Putting them away, I notice that the wire shelves of the fridge appear to be dirty.
Upon closer examination, I think a chocolate milk must have exploded with great force all over the inside of the fridge. Every shelf has drops all over it on both sides. Quite an accomplishment; the chocolate milk must have been sitting dead center when it was shot with a high-powered firearm. Of course, that doesn't explain why there were no drops on the glass doors... I shouldn't be a CSI.
So I shift all the yogurts, pull out a shelf, and start applying hot soapy water, a rag, and an obsessive need to get every spot off. I'm sitting on the floor next to the fridge, scrubbing away, when I feel eyes on me. I look up from my work to find big clear blue eyes staring straight into mine. She's about three years old. She's wearing a pink winter coat with heart-shaped buttons and a hood framing those big eyes. She watches me closely, then points at the rack and says "whazzit?". I explain that it comes from the fridge and it's dirty. She nods seriously back at me and purses her lips. Then she points at my bucket and says "whazzit?".
"It's soapy water. For cleaning."
She nods again. She plucks at her coat buttons.
"That's a cute coat you've got there. Are you too hot?"
She nods and drops her hands and comes a little closer.
"I'm sorry, sweetie, but my hands are dirty; I can't help you with your coat. Maybe your mom can help?"
A young woman who might be the little girl's very young mother or much older sister has chosen the juices she wants from the next fridge over. She comes over but doesn't say "stop bothering the nice lady" as I expect.
She smiles at me: "It's funny what they find interesting at this age."
"Apparently my scrubbing is fascinating."
She leads the little girl away to choose a cereal. I continue scrubbing.
A few minutes later, she’s back. Her hood's down now; she's got wispy blond hair. She leans against the fridge door and watches me. I can see her adult behind her, choosing potatoes.
"Whazzit?" she leans closer and points at one of the spots I haven't gotten to.
"Don't touch, dear; it's dirty."
She straightens and clasps her hands together behind her back.
"That's a dirt spot. See, I'll get it off. There, a little scrubbing and it's all gone! Poof!"
I turn the rack this way and that: "Look, all clean now. All shiny again."
I am rewarded by her tiny smile.
Her adult puts potatoes and peppers and a bag of salad in her basket and comes back over to my companion: "Time to go now, Megan."
"Bye!" I say.
The girl gives me a dignified nod and my unlikely supervisor toddles away, one stringed mitten trailing from her right sleeve.
Upon closer examination, I think a chocolate milk must have exploded with great force all over the inside of the fridge. Every shelf has drops all over it on both sides. Quite an accomplishment; the chocolate milk must have been sitting dead center when it was shot with a high-powered firearm. Of course, that doesn't explain why there were no drops on the glass doors... I shouldn't be a CSI.
So I shift all the yogurts, pull out a shelf, and start applying hot soapy water, a rag, and an obsessive need to get every spot off. I'm sitting on the floor next to the fridge, scrubbing away, when I feel eyes on me. I look up from my work to find big clear blue eyes staring straight into mine. She's about three years old. She's wearing a pink winter coat with heart-shaped buttons and a hood framing those big eyes. She watches me closely, then points at the rack and says "whazzit?". I explain that it comes from the fridge and it's dirty. She nods seriously back at me and purses her lips. Then she points at my bucket and says "whazzit?".
"It's soapy water. For cleaning."
She nods again. She plucks at her coat buttons.
"That's a cute coat you've got there. Are you too hot?"
She nods and drops her hands and comes a little closer.
"I'm sorry, sweetie, but my hands are dirty; I can't help you with your coat. Maybe your mom can help?"
A young woman who might be the little girl's very young mother or much older sister has chosen the juices she wants from the next fridge over. She comes over but doesn't say "stop bothering the nice lady" as I expect.
She smiles at me: "It's funny what they find interesting at this age."
"Apparently my scrubbing is fascinating."
She leads the little girl away to choose a cereal. I continue scrubbing.
A few minutes later, she’s back. Her hood's down now; she's got wispy blond hair. She leans against the fridge door and watches me. I can see her adult behind her, choosing potatoes.
"Whazzit?" she leans closer and points at one of the spots I haven't gotten to.
"Don't touch, dear; it's dirty."
She straightens and clasps her hands together behind her back.
"That's a dirt spot. See, I'll get it off. There, a little scrubbing and it's all gone! Poof!"
I turn the rack this way and that: "Look, all clean now. All shiny again."
I am rewarded by her tiny smile.
Her adult puts potatoes and peppers and a bag of salad in her basket and comes back over to my companion: "Time to go now, Megan."
"Bye!" I say.
The girl gives me a dignified nod and my unlikely supervisor toddles away, one stringed mitten trailing from her right sleeve.
