In Case You Were Washing Dishes...

Dishwashing is an arduous task involving various tools. Aparatus number one is the srubbie brush. This is an all-purpose tool that should be used with caution, especially if it has not been washed previous to the next usage. First, take the srubbie brush and turn on scalding water insert the brush into the running stream of water and move your hand back and forth. Various old chunks of food will fall from the scrubbie brush into the sink, unless they are stuck. If this is the case, insert your forefinger between the brisles and fleck off the non-descript food items. When the scrubbie brush is clean, you may begin the task of scrubbing the plate. Put the brush part down on the surface and move the apparatus back and forth on the stuck-on food. Do this under warm running water if situation demands. When the surface of the plate is smooth, wrinse it under water and insert the plate in between the pegs of the diswasher. Repeat.

Fishing With Bait

Dancing is like fishing. Some people are fisherpersons, and some people are dancers. I like fly fishing. I used to hate dances, but they’re growing on me, once I saw the practical applications. You choose your bait, putting on an outfit in the hopes of "catching" someone. If you don't "catch" anyone, you blame it on the outfit. "Oh, maybe I shoud have worn the pink dress with the ruffles." Likewise, if you don't catch a fish, you blame it on the bait. "Oh, I should have casted the green one with the fuzzy wings." The only thing is, you can't eat your "catch" for dinner like you can eat your trout. You can't even take him home and mount him over your fireplace. That's what men could be useful for, taxedermy. I could have a hot guy stuffed and mounted, and I'd be happy for years.

My friend, Monica, took me to the school Valentine's dance in eighth grade. I immediately made an Entrance, jutting my pelvis to the music. Monica elbowed me. "Stop, you're scaring the boys away!" she wispered vehemently. Of course this was my first dance, and I was familiar with the tradition that, on a person's first fishing trip, there is a definite Teacher and a Student. I was the Student. Monica was going to help me reel in a good 'un. Many dances later, I hadn't even caught a sucker.

Then Monica resorted to reeling in one for me, another first-time fishing experience. When a fisherperson fishes for the first time, they usually don't catch anything, so you have to help them out a little bit. First you get a fish hooked on the line, then you give the pole to the new fisherperson. They get really excited: "I caught one! I caught one!" only you don't tell them that you did it for them.

Monica was less discreet. "Hey, wanna dance with my friend?" she said not a few times before many guys rejected me to my face. Then she got smart. Ryan was afraid of Monica, and she knew it. She walked up behind him, gripping his shoulder. "Will you dance with her?!" she said in a nasty tone, pulling him and me together. The whole time, Ryan and I tried to stay as far apart as possible. I touched my fingertips to the fleshy part between his collar bone and his shoulder, and he touched his fingertips to my waist. We both tilted our heads away from each other and avoided all forms of eye contact. We just stood there the whole time, and Monica hovered by us, re-positioning my hands on his shoulders and repremanding me. "You at least have to touch each other," she would say. I finished the dance, threw him back in the stream, and went back to fly fishing.

Blue's Clue

“Can you help me find a clue?” his face close to the TV screen, pleading.

“Yes,” I thought, practically drooling. “I’ll do anything. Help you find a clue… Run away with you.”

Blushing, I glanced down at Patrick. He was looking as intently at the screen as I was before I broke my trance. Stupid me. I was paranoid enough to think that this young, innocent boy would know the true nature of my obsession with “Blue’s Clues.”

I looked back at the television screen. “We need our Handy-Dandy…Notebook…right!” said Steve, pulling the Notebook out of his pocket. His eyebrows furrowed in pure concentration as he drew the last clue. A man’s always sexy when he’s deep in concentration. I knew what would happen next… He would go to his Thinking Chair and figure out the clues. But this time it would be different--

I would help him figure it all out. That Thinking Chair was big enough for the two of us. Only I’d have to overlap him just a little and put my leg over his… Then I’d put my hand on his soft, boyish cheek and turn his face towards mine. I’d give him that same pleading look that he always gave me when he asked me to help him find a clue. Only I’d be the clue this time. Let him figure me out. If he was accepting, he’d slowly bring his head towards mine and brush my lips with his, a soft exploration of what I had to offer. I’d return the gesture with gusto. A few more kisses and I’d take the invitation to unbutton a few buttons on his green striped shirt, exposing the manly chest hair that he so carefully concealed from millions of innocent children who watch his show every day.

Suddenly, Steve didn’t look so innocent anymore. He wasn’t that same guy that sang mindless tunes about his ecstatically frenzied happiness to live alone with his dog. He needed someone. He needed me.

Steve got up from his Thinking Chair with a new look on his face, or maybe it was just my imagination. He began to sing the “So-Long Song,” and I was heartbroken. How could he do this to me? It was like nothing ever happened. Of course nothing had ever happened, but it seemed so real…

I went upstairs to put Patrick to bed. He was a surprisingly good kid and always went to bed when I told him to. I went back downstairs to do my homework, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Steve. What did he do in his spare time? In real life? I wanted to send him a letter on his show. He would sing that special song that he sang every time the mail came and then he would open the card, exposing the same video-recording-square-type-thing that he always got in the mail. It would be a video of me, wearing a slinky black dress.

“Hi, Steve,” I would say in a raspy voice. “I’ve been watching your show for some time now, and I think you’re sexy.” Okay. My fantasy was already sounding lame, but it was fun to think of how the parent viewers would respond to this had it been a real program. I always had this fantasy of offending everyone in the USA. Only then there would be no way to escape. I needed to get to my homework.

But the video tape was staring up at me from the table, the shiny wrapper gleaming over the picture of Steve and his trusty dog, Blue. Should I watch it again? No, the embarrassment would be too great. Patrick’s parents would come home and see me watching “Blue’s Clues” after all the kids had gone to bed. They would probably think I was just immature or developmentally delayed, but I would be even more embarrassed if they saw and understood the meaning of my flushed cheeks and half-open, drooling mouth. No, I had to get to my homework. But who cares about the Sons of the Confederation anyway? Twenty-five year old Steve stared up at me in pure childlike innocence. I resisted the temptation and reluctantly put the tape back on the shelf, sneaking a few more peaks at Steve in his green striped shirt. Patrick’s parents eventually came home, and I went back to my house and went to bed, dreaming pleasantly.

I told a couple of people about my new crush, but they just laughed at me. Were they blind? Couldn’t they see the sexy man through the guise of a friendly kids’ show? No, they were too shallow. I kept silent and had an in-the-closet crush on the Blue’s Clues guy for years. The crush got weaker and faded when I went to college and no longer babysat and watched “Blue’s Clues” reruns. Then an experience awakened my desire.

I was reading a bedtime story with my niece, and she wanted to read Blue’s Bedtime, an old book with the original Steve, instead of that ugly new guy, Joe. The feelings flooded back, and I realized that Steve was my one true love, and I could never accept Joe as a cheap substitute. There he was, smiling up at me from the open book, casually reminding me to brush my teeth before bed.

I could handle it no longer. That very weekend I went on the ‘net and did a search on Steve Burns to see what he was up to nowadays. I already knew about his premature obituary, the internet rumor that he had died of a heroine overdose. I read the actual news, which asserted that Steve was in good health and that he had started a rock band, something he had wanted to do his whole life. I immediately went to his website and found his music. I played it over and over again, and my heart beat wildly at the sound of his voice. Suddenly, I felt comfortable liking Steve. It was one thing to have a crush on the Blue’s Clues guy, but it was another to have a crush on a rock star. The second scenario gave me a sense of normality, like I could fit in with the world, for once.

I seriously considered sending Steve a letter about my feelings for him, and my friend did triple-dog dare me, so I can’t back out now. Only I can’t write anything so eloquent that Steve will fall in love with me. Maybe I can leave him a series of clues to find out who I am. But could the real Steve Burns figure those clues out without the help of Blue and his child viewers? Or would he want to, now that he’s a sexy rock star? I still dream about him, and although he may never know that I exist, the hope of tomorrow still hangs in the air, waiting to be strangled by reality. But who can help dreaming? Cinderella couldn’t, and neither can I. But these are two women in very different situations. Or are we just two women in different stages of the same situation?