Bleach Nostalgia

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/* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:”Table Normal”; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:””; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:”Times New Roman”; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} I’m always amazed how a smell can instantly take you back to an exact moment in your life. At this point I basically have a smell to memory rolodex in my head. Today while doing laundry a whiff of bleach took me back to grammar school.

The bleach took me back to when a girl named Celeste threw bleach on my favorite jeans. I was doing laundry.  I’ve been doing laundry, alone, since the building block days.I can still remember those jeans, dark blue with orange trimming.  I can’t completely recall our dispute but I do think the attack was unprovoked.  Maybe she was just trying to help me write a blog for my blog-a-thon 28 years in advance.  That Celeste wasn’t a mean older petty bully.  No, she was a visionary helping me tap into my inner writer.

The main lesson learned was not to wear my good jeans while doing laundry (Today I wore some ragged shorts to the laundry room).

Kids can be so cruel but Brooklyn kid cruelty skews a little …well…crueler than most places.  I would have much rather just been given cooties.  Even a wedgie would have been preferable over destroying by favorite pants, when I only had 5 pair to begin with.

Brooklyn…we go hard…we go hard.