Definition: To remove dirt or stains by hard rubbing.
Scrubbing Bubbles- we do the work so you don't have to!
You know, I wish that they really did 'do the work'. Would have saved me a lot of trouble you know? A lot less yelling- you know? Like, when the toilet wasn't clean enough- or I couldn't get the stains off the bathroom floor. Many times I was tempted to just pour bleach on all the little crack in the hundreds of tiles- get rid of the black for good. But that would have just gotten me yelled at even more. Not to mention the whole not being able to walk into the bathroom for like, ever.
You see the four of us shared one bathroom- so it needed to be cleaned, a lot. And I always seemed to be the one to do it. I did it so often –compared to the rest of the family at any rate- that one day my step-dad decided to make a big deal about it not being my 'official' chore.
But, my official chore was emptying the dishwasher. My stepsister's, Alex, was to sweep the kitchen and the two short, narrow hallways we had. That's how it had been for two years- but suddenly it wasn't acceptable anymore.
I can't remember the first time he brought it up, but I know that it was either in late sixth or early seventh grade. And I remember that the second time was maybe a month later- if that.
I was in the living room actually- the Ikea lights hanging from the ceiling were on, and the black standing lamp by the dark wooden door was on also. That lamp wasn't normally on. What brought it up now? It was either allowance or him wondering why the bathroom wasn't clean. I believe that it was allowance- he wanted to know why the allowance system worked the way it did.
So I explained to him; half our –Alex and I had the same system- age for just existing, our full age for doing our daily chore, extra money for extra chores, and I got extra money because I paid for my own lunch. He wanted to know what my chore was.
I can actually remember exactly where we were standing- I was standing by the swinging door to the kitchen, leaning onto the corner of the large glass table, which had a green tablecloth I believe. He was sorting mail on the other side of the table.
When I told him our chores, that Alex had sweeping, and that I had dishwasher duty he…he got this look on his face. One that I knew well by then, one that said that he was very confused. And when he was confused, and you didn't answer his question correctly, he got mad. Very mad.
What he said to me then, it stunned me for a moment. Why would he think that my job was dishwasher duty and cleaning the bathroom? Cleaning the whole bathroom is a two hour job- at least! So I hesitated for a moment before answering.
However, the answer was wrong. It wasn't correct that cleaning the bathroom wasn't my job. Or at least it shouldn't have been. Because that meant…that I wasn't working hard enough. I was never working hard enough.
I wish that scrubbing bubbles could have rescued me. That scrubbing bubbles could have helped me work hard enough. But that didn't seem to be how it worked. It seemed that the scrubbing bubbles would lift the dirt, but in the end I'd have to scrub off the soap that had mixed with the dirt. And sometimes, I'd have to reapply.
My mom was my scrubbing bubbles. She always seemed to lift my step dad off- even though eventually I still had to sort through my problems with him on my own. But in the meantime- when I still thought that scrubbing bubbles could do all the work- I could always count on her.
When he started yelling that day, my mom came out of the office. The office door was on the wall opposite the standing lamp, and the wall to the left of the swinging door. My mom came out of that door a lot because of the yelling. She'd yell back. It was…a ritual.
I'd screw up, he'd yell, she'd come in and begin to yell, tell me to leave- and I would. They'd almost always end up in the kitchen. If I didn't want to hear then I'd have to turn my music up loud and get really into a book. But it never worked- I always heard them anyway. And I don't think that they ever realized that I knew all their secrets. I knew that Alex was once a cutter- due to a phone conversation- and I once spent an hour locked in my bathroom listening to the three of them scream at each other. Do you want to know why?
Because the kitchen door was open. The kitchen door was almost directly across the white wood of the bathroom door. If I had left the bathroom- I would have been exposed.
Now Mrs. Bailey, you might be feeling very sorry for me at this point. If you do, I really wish that you wouldn't- because I had a good life. After the age of seven and a half I was never beaten. And even before then I wouldn't have called it 'beaten'. Not even close really. Sure I was hit, I was hit a lot. But it was because I did stupid things. I forgot a lot of things. And yes, I was physically moved by being picked up by the back of the neck. But, that was it. Anything worse and my mom would intervene. She would pick up some of the dirt.
I can't feel sorry for myself for three years of being hit. Not when there are people, not when I know people, who are belted. Who have been raped or almost raped by their own stepfathers. Because, even though I didn't have a cleaner that would get rid of everything, at least I had scrubbing bubbles for a very long time- and many people, all they have is soap and water.
I know, I know- I still haven't updated my other one yet. I guess I'll do that right now.
A little backround on this:
With that word create a story.
All these stories are 100 percent true, but are put to a fictional girl.
I'll write the chapter that explains all that later.