Summer is almost here: I can tell by the way I can open the gas bill without first having to pour myself a drink; by the way Clyde’s foot injuries start bleeding immediately (as opposed to twenty minutes after his foot finally thaws out–our little Jethro don’t much cotton to shoes); and, of course, by the way the water glasses start sprouting from every moderately flat surface in our house like mushrooms.
Remember that scene in Signs, the Mel Gibson movie about alien invaders, where the little girl has left half-drunk glasses of water all over the house? And how it just so happens that the aliens hate water, allowing Joaquin Phoenix to get the upper hand on the evil, creepy alien guy by smashing all of the water glasses right next to Mr. Creepy Alien? And how, in the end, old Mel is actually glad his daughter had this weird water fetish, because it ended up being one of the things that helped them survive? Yeah, well, good for Mel Gibson and all that, but if creepy aliens ever invaded my house they might as well start picking out their new colors, because, when it comes to the drinking glass diaspora, I don’t have even a tenth of Mel’s patience.
It must be hereditary: as I recall, growing up in Phoenix I was never allowed to hold an actual drinking glass in my hands until I was a teenager; before that it was Dixie cups kept in a special dispenser by the kitchen sink. Given the heat of the Phoenix summers, you would think that Dixie cups would’ve been the perfect solution to the problem of vast packs of thirsty children roaming the neighborhood. And you would’ve been right–if it hadn’t been that Phoenix was so hot; and Dixie cups so small that trying to get enough water in the middle of a pack of thirsty, jostling kids was like trying to put out a forest fire with a water pistol.
Speaking of water pistols: as I remember, the worst side effect of having a scrum of children and Dixie cups gathered ‘round the kitchen sink was that “super-soaked” was how everybody ended up, along with the floor, the wall, and anything else in a twelve foot arc around the faucet. That’s one of the reasons why, when my children got old enough to get their own water I forewent the Dixie cup route entirely and instead went traditional (traditional hillbilly, that is), and started my own personal jelly jar drinking glass collection. It took a little time, but by virtue of hard work, perseverance, and some serious PB&J consumption, by the time my kids could finally reach the kitchen sink we had enough drinking “glasses” for everyone in the entire neighborhood; unfortunately, this meant that the first sign of hot weather left my house looking like it had been made over into Early American Marmalade.
They were everywhere: in clusters around the couch, on every square inch of night stand, and lined up on window sills like beer bottles in a freshman dorm. The worst part was that not one of them was ever empty; in fact, most of them had so little water missing that it was hard to tell the difference between a glass that has been drunk from and one that had simply succumbed to the natural processes of evaporation.
Because of our current drought situation, I am hesitant to pour any of the water out; however, my first two solutions–drinking the water myself and pouring it on the houseplants–ended up with me confined to the bathroom and the plants turning yellow and dying (come to think of it, that’s how I felt, too). Once again, maybe my mother was right after all; maybe Dixie cups are the way to go. It’s either that, or pray for an alien invasion.
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