my teacher wanted me to write a story, and i was more than happy to tell her what i did over my christmas break. i spent it with my family, and my family was in the mafia. but only being in the second grade, i wasn't sure how to spell "mafia" yet. i tried. and i wrote all about my christmas with the chinese mafia who came from out of town especially to pay us a visit. grandma bessie, uncle egg, bonnie and mary were all there. christmas was big and loud and very exciting.
and then my teacher wanted to have a special chat with me. "your family is not in the mafia," she told me. "is there another word you're looking for?" i told her no, mafia is exactly what i meant, i just didn't know how to spell it. i asked her how you're supposed to spell it. i tried to explain how my family really was in the chinese mafia, and she got this sort of worried look on her face. she thought i was making it up. she refused to believe me, i bet she even talked to my parents about it. i was insensed that she did not like my story, my very true story.
years later, i was crushed to find out that my family was not, in fact, involved in any mafia. i found out what the real mafia was. we just called them the mafia, because.
it's sort of like that time in fourth grade when i confidently raised my hand to answer the washington d.c. question. that was easy, i knew what d.c. stood for, my father always referred to good ol' dixie cup, he used to live there. i was sure i was right, but when my teacher said no, that is most certainly not what the d.c. stands for, i was stricken with disbelief. how could i be wrong? had i been lied to all these years?
well, i have since realized that not everything my father said should be taken completely seriously. a lot of what he said, actually. and as a kid, with a very smart, knowledgable, witty, punster dad, it can be hard to figure out what is real and what is a joke. because the delivery is always the same, and the jokes always get repeated so many times that nearly anyone could believe they were true. but then there were those strange things he would say, that weren't really a pun or a joke, but his own peculiarity.
it's funny how every significant day in his life happened on a thursday. "daddy, when did you become a boxer?" and his reply would be, "on a thursday." "when did you get married?" .... "when did you get your first job?" - always on a thursday.
or how about this one, "where are you going?" do you know where my father was always going? "to see a man about a duck." tell me, what is a kid supposed to do with that? in his mind, it made sense, it amused him, and he didn't need anybody else to get it, but he did always get a huge smirk on his face when he thought he was being particularly clever and saw that he had thouroughly confused some poor soul who knew it was a joke but couldn't figure it out. ah, but the giant smile and kickback of the head, followed by an attention-getting gaffah, that was reserved for those who did figure out his best lines. and as a kid, that is so embarrassing.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Thursday, February 14, 2008
the guy who made me cry on valentines day
today i went to get the stitches taken out of dog. back to the vet. i felt that i would hold my own, i had already gotten the bad news, so there was nothing new to get upset about. i would be fine. don't you think? and hey, we were going to the young, good-looking vet, not the old grouchy one. how bad could it be? snip, snip, dog treat, drool, dog treat, dog treat, done. which is exactly what happened, except that mr. vet started talking about the course of the disease and how one day, probably sooner that i had thought, i may have to bring sayers back so they can euthanize him.
he made me cry, and cry, and snot all over the place, and cry a little bit more. it was terrible. but at least he gave me some kleenex. man, i'm such a cry baby. and i really hate crying in front of people, for whatever reason. i may have a stoic or two in my family. or used to anyway. the stoics have died, along with some of the non-stoics, which is probably why this is so hard. he is just a dog, and yeah, i'd be a mess regardless, but somehow it seems like a last straw. dogs aren't family, but they're loyal. and sayers is special because he's tied to a past that i have a hard time remembering. i had him when i still had my whole family. grandma was always afraid that the puppy would take her out, walker and all, as he went racing through the house, lap after lap. my mom knew this dog, she helped me raise him and put him on the truck on my sixteenth birthday when it was time for him to go. and when sayers came back four years later, he kept my dad company when the house was empty and he was so lonely.
silly as it may sound, losing this dog is going to feel like a break with the past and starting all over, and who will be there? your parents will always be there for you. your dog will always stick by you. life's a different deal without that sense of belonging to more than, well yourself. because what is the point in that? of course, i am not alone. there is my sister, my aunt and auntie, and wonderful friends. there is a god whose love for me i continue to learn, sometimes despite myself. but there is still something to be said for loss. it is not the last word, but it is significant, it must be swallowed and digested. you recover, but you can never regain what has been lost and so the void will always ache a little bit, sometimes a lot. i am finally learning this and learning to accept it, but it has been a slow, hard lesson. there is nothing worse than finishing a good book. you want more, you want the story to continue, or as paul harvey would say, "the rest of the story." and usually, the rest of the story is quite unexpected. so i guess we'll see...
he made me cry, and cry, and snot all over the place, and cry a little bit more. it was terrible. but at least he gave me some kleenex. man, i'm such a cry baby. and i really hate crying in front of people, for whatever reason. i may have a stoic or two in my family. or used to anyway. the stoics have died, along with some of the non-stoics, which is probably why this is so hard. he is just a dog, and yeah, i'd be a mess regardless, but somehow it seems like a last straw. dogs aren't family, but they're loyal. and sayers is special because he's tied to a past that i have a hard time remembering. i had him when i still had my whole family. grandma was always afraid that the puppy would take her out, walker and all, as he went racing through the house, lap after lap. my mom knew this dog, she helped me raise him and put him on the truck on my sixteenth birthday when it was time for him to go. and when sayers came back four years later, he kept my dad company when the house was empty and he was so lonely.
silly as it may sound, losing this dog is going to feel like a break with the past and starting all over, and who will be there? your parents will always be there for you. your dog will always stick by you. life's a different deal without that sense of belonging to more than, well yourself. because what is the point in that? of course, i am not alone. there is my sister, my aunt and auntie, and wonderful friends. there is a god whose love for me i continue to learn, sometimes despite myself. but there is still something to be said for loss. it is not the last word, but it is significant, it must be swallowed and digested. you recover, but you can never regain what has been lost and so the void will always ache a little bit, sometimes a lot. i am finally learning this and learning to accept it, but it has been a slow, hard lesson. there is nothing worse than finishing a good book. you want more, you want the story to continue, or as paul harvey would say, "the rest of the story." and usually, the rest of the story is quite unexpected. so i guess we'll see...
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Last Wednesday
It's Wednesday. I've decided to skip teaching and go to Ellen's memorial, because that is clearly more important than studying the verb "have to" and reviewing body parts vocab and how to make a doctor's appointment on the telephone. A little bit ironic huh? Ok, so we drive up to Hailey, me, Lisa, Mike, Bonnie, Bessie, dog, and cat. We're dressed up because Ellen got sick and died, because that is what people do when other people die. We arrive, we park, and I let the dog out to pee before we go in. Except that Sayers doesn't want to get out of the car. He's acting weird. I pull him out in the snow and tell him to pee, which he is really good at usually, but this time he won't even move. He won't walk, he's slow, he's not responsive.
Mike asks if he got car sick. Um, I don't think so. I start thinking that maybe he has carbon monoxide poisoning. Maybe when Bonnie spun out on the highway a few days before and crashed the fuel up side into a pole, maybe that did something to the fuel system and poor doggie got gassed on the car ride up. I put him back in the car and figured he'd recover. We went in, I hung up my coat, started to mingle with Ellen's friends, but of course all I can think about is my dog dying in the back of the truck while I'm inside trying to mourn and remember Ellen, but really only thinking about my dog instead and doing nothing for him. That would be a cruel turn of fate. So after piling my paper plate up with food I put my coat back on and went to check on the dog.
He was worse. Couldn't quite manage to lift his head or even want to. He was at the vet just the day before to get a routine vaccine, he was fine. They said he looked good. Could it be some freak delayed reaction to the vaccine? I took a peek at his gums, which instead of being a healthy pink color were about the same color as his teeth. For a second I questioned myself, they are supposed to be pink, right? Clearly giving him some fresh air turning off the car was not helping. I went back inside and got directions to a somewhat nearby vet and Mike drove with me down to the vet in Bellevue. We were, by far, the best dressed people in the place. I was even wearing my long black coat, which is taylored and which was now completetly covered in white dog fur from lifting him in and out of the truck several times.
Of course, the minute you get there, they want you to fill out paper work and expect you to remember things like your phone number. Come on people, I have no idea. I just need you to fix my dog so I can get back to my funeral. They were very nice though. They asked where I was from: Twin Falls. It was pretty clear though, the way they looked at us that they had a hard time believing that any two folks dressed the way we were could be from Twin. Look, people die . And their friends, even their friends from Twin Falls, dress up all classy for them. I told them I needed to go back to Hailey though, for a funeral. But that I am staying in Ketchum. They were so confused. Here I came from Twin Falls to Hailey, then took my dog to Bellvue, had to go back to Hailey, but was not staying there or going back to Twin Falls. I was going to be in Ketchum. OK. It seemed he was bleeding internally, so once they got a diagnosis they would refer me to a vet in Sun Valley, which is close to Ketchum.
We went back to Hailey, back to the memorial service. I found my plate of food was still there, so I ate it. And I mingled a little bit with folks, looked at Ellen's photo albums and found some embarrassing photos of myself with my equally dorky sister in them. It was strange, and sad, but sort of happy too, an Ellen celebration. But then I got a call from the vet and they explained the most likely scenario. Sayers' spleen was exploding; he had a tumor growing in it and it got big enough that the organ ruptured and the bleeding made him go into shock. That was his problem. He would probably have to have his spleen removed. "Have to." I have to go to work. You have to go to the dentist. My dog has to have his speen removed. Such application, I could use this in my class. But maybe there are too many haves, they might get confused. It is, after all, first level ESL.
Anyway, the vet made me cry because I was convinced that my dog had cancer and was going to die, and here I was, at a funeral, the only person crying. And I was crying because of my dog, not because of Ellen who did just die from the big C. I imaginged how she would respond to the news. I bet she'd be pissed. She was pissed that she got sick soon after finding the best dog she had ever had. And this was exactly the kind of thing that she would see as unfair and would get upset about. Ellen likes happy endings and cheesy movies that are unrealistically upbeat.
Ok, so to wrap this thing up, I took Sayers to the Sun Valley Vet Thursday morning and they took out his spleen and sewed him back up and he got to come home on Friday. He's healing up nicely now, though a little depressed now that i've taken his morphine patch off. But the vet did call this morning to say that he tumor was cancer. He has something like a 90% chance of dying within 12 months. So that sucks, but I can't say I didn't expect it. I had a feeling. I like my dog a lot. He's mine. He's my buddy, so we'll have to hang out and be pals and enjoy each other as much as possible. I really, really like him.
Mike asks if he got car sick. Um, I don't think so. I start thinking that maybe he has carbon monoxide poisoning. Maybe when Bonnie spun out on the highway a few days before and crashed the fuel up side into a pole, maybe that did something to the fuel system and poor doggie got gassed on the car ride up. I put him back in the car and figured he'd recover. We went in, I hung up my coat, started to mingle with Ellen's friends, but of course all I can think about is my dog dying in the back of the truck while I'm inside trying to mourn and remember Ellen, but really only thinking about my dog instead and doing nothing for him. That would be a cruel turn of fate. So after piling my paper plate up with food I put my coat back on and went to check on the dog.
He was worse. Couldn't quite manage to lift his head or even want to. He was at the vet just the day before to get a routine vaccine, he was fine. They said he looked good. Could it be some freak delayed reaction to the vaccine? I took a peek at his gums, which instead of being a healthy pink color were about the same color as his teeth. For a second I questioned myself, they are supposed to be pink, right? Clearly giving him some fresh air turning off the car was not helping. I went back inside and got directions to a somewhat nearby vet and Mike drove with me down to the vet in Bellevue. We were, by far, the best dressed people in the place. I was even wearing my long black coat, which is taylored and which was now completetly covered in white dog fur from lifting him in and out of the truck several times.
Of course, the minute you get there, they want you to fill out paper work and expect you to remember things like your phone number. Come on people, I have no idea. I just need you to fix my dog so I can get back to my funeral. They were very nice though. They asked where I was from: Twin Falls. It was pretty clear though, the way they looked at us that they had a hard time believing that any two folks dressed the way we were could be from Twin. Look, people die . And their friends, even their friends from Twin Falls, dress up all classy for them. I told them I needed to go back to Hailey though, for a funeral. But that I am staying in Ketchum. They were so confused. Here I came from Twin Falls to Hailey, then took my dog to Bellvue, had to go back to Hailey, but was not staying there or going back to Twin Falls. I was going to be in Ketchum. OK. It seemed he was bleeding internally, so once they got a diagnosis they would refer me to a vet in Sun Valley, which is close to Ketchum.
We went back to Hailey, back to the memorial service. I found my plate of food was still there, so I ate it. And I mingled a little bit with folks, looked at Ellen's photo albums and found some embarrassing photos of myself with my equally dorky sister in them. It was strange, and sad, but sort of happy too, an Ellen celebration. But then I got a call from the vet and they explained the most likely scenario. Sayers' spleen was exploding; he had a tumor growing in it and it got big enough that the organ ruptured and the bleeding made him go into shock. That was his problem. He would probably have to have his spleen removed. "Have to." I have to go to work. You have to go to the dentist. My dog has to have his speen removed. Such application, I could use this in my class. But maybe there are too many haves, they might get confused. It is, after all, first level ESL.
Anyway, the vet made me cry because I was convinced that my dog had cancer and was going to die, and here I was, at a funeral, the only person crying. And I was crying because of my dog, not because of Ellen who did just die from the big C. I imaginged how she would respond to the news. I bet she'd be pissed. She was pissed that she got sick soon after finding the best dog she had ever had. And this was exactly the kind of thing that she would see as unfair and would get upset about. Ellen likes happy endings and cheesy movies that are unrealistically upbeat.
Ok, so to wrap this thing up, I took Sayers to the Sun Valley Vet Thursday morning and they took out his spleen and sewed him back up and he got to come home on Friday. He's healing up nicely now, though a little depressed now that i've taken his morphine patch off. But the vet did call this morning to say that he tumor was cancer. He has something like a 90% chance of dying within 12 months. So that sucks, but I can't say I didn't expect it. I had a feeling. I like my dog a lot. He's mine. He's my buddy, so we'll have to hang out and be pals and enjoy each other as much as possible. I really, really like him.
Cat Women
one day at work i was making some muffins or scones or something along those lines... and the manager walks up to me and says, "you know those two mills sisters who come in here all the time?" yeah, i tell him i know them. so he asks, "are they cat women?"
ok, do you understand the question? because i had no idea what he was talking about, i had to clarify. cat women?
"yea, cat women," like this is a normal term that people use everyday. i'm thinking about cat woman, batman... is he asking if they think they have catlike superpowers? really, i have no idea what he's talking about. so while i'm trying to compare the mills sisters to the only other cat woman reference i know and figure out whether or not they could in fact be cat woman, or cat women, he finally enlightens me with the meaning of the phrase.
apparently, a cat woman is, yes, a woman.... who will not only be a spinster, but will be an overenthusiastic cat owning spinster in her later years.... which means probably having more cats than friends.
oh, of course. cat women. no, i told him that the mills sisters are not cat women. one is actually getting married soon, and little does she know, ruining her chances of ever becoming cat woman. what i failed to tell him, however, was the really amusing part. that he was in fact asking a cat woman, who didn't even know she was a "cat woman," about cat women, without even realizing it. let me clarify a little bit here. i am not a self-professed cat woman type, but it has been hinted at before. i once had two friends give me a crazy lady action figure, a prediction of me in my gray years. batteries were not icluded, but six or seven cats were. she was old, independant, poorly dressed, and yes, crazy and surrounded by cats. but i am determined not to let this be a self-fulfilling prophesy. receiving the crazy cat lady figure has made me determined not to succumb. however great the tempation to acquire litter upon litter of cats, i vow never to start a cat collection, never to open an feline orphanage out of my home, and never even to own more than one cat, if that, if and when i am an old, crazy spinster woman. its not that being a cat woman is necessarily such a bad thing, but i would prefer to be known for something other than a multitude of cats, and i just don't think many people could ever see past a cat infestation.
ok, do you understand the question? because i had no idea what he was talking about, i had to clarify. cat women?
"yea, cat women," like this is a normal term that people use everyday. i'm thinking about cat woman, batman... is he asking if they think they have catlike superpowers? really, i have no idea what he's talking about. so while i'm trying to compare the mills sisters to the only other cat woman reference i know and figure out whether or not they could in fact be cat woman, or cat women, he finally enlightens me with the meaning of the phrase.
apparently, a cat woman is, yes, a woman.... who will not only be a spinster, but will be an overenthusiastic cat owning spinster in her later years.... which means probably having more cats than friends.
oh, of course. cat women. no, i told him that the mills sisters are not cat women. one is actually getting married soon, and little does she know, ruining her chances of ever becoming cat woman. what i failed to tell him, however, was the really amusing part. that he was in fact asking a cat woman, who didn't even know she was a "cat woman," about cat women, without even realizing it. let me clarify a little bit here. i am not a self-professed cat woman type, but it has been hinted at before. i once had two friends give me a crazy lady action figure, a prediction of me in my gray years. batteries were not icluded, but six or seven cats were. she was old, independant, poorly dressed, and yes, crazy and surrounded by cats. but i am determined not to let this be a self-fulfilling prophesy. receiving the crazy cat lady figure has made me determined not to succumb. however great the tempation to acquire litter upon litter of cats, i vow never to start a cat collection, never to open an feline orphanage out of my home, and never even to own more than one cat, if that, if and when i am an old, crazy spinster woman. its not that being a cat woman is necessarily such a bad thing, but i would prefer to be known for something other than a multitude of cats, and i just don't think many people could ever see past a cat infestation.
Saturday, February 3, 2007
Hair Flare
I was on a road trip once and for some reason one guy decided he needed to take a brush to his head. Mistakenly, he thought that borrowing one from the one of the girls would be a safe bet… girls are into grooming right? Yeah, I guess…Witnessing his horror to find that not one of us had brought a brush or comb was slightly horrifying in itself. You could see it in his eyes, at first disbelief, then the realization that we were either not real girls or that girls, some girls, don’t brush their hair on occasion, maybe ever… Oh the horror! No rouge, no perfumed lotions, ok, but no brushes? Unthinkable. We, on the other hand, were equally perplexed by the fact that someone with such short hair would try to brush it. How? And to what effect? Detangling is clearly not the issue, and style… can you really style an inch of hair? But more importantly, why would you?
It got me thinking, and after some serious reflection I realize that it’s not that I’m against grooming and styling and such, but that my approach is just a little unconventional. I maintain clean on a regular basis, save kempt for the slightly special occasions, and even get classy every once in a great while. And I never find a brush necessary. Don’t be fooled into thinking that I just don’t care. In fact, my alternative methods are a direct result of my vanity. Blow dryers take time and dry out your hair, which is why I choose air drying. I do this on my commute, and find that the vents in my helmet are perfectly suited to it. The helmet technique not only dries my hair thoroughly, evenly, and naturally, but adds volume and a slight to dramatic wave, depending on the frequency and speed of wind gusts. The other advantage to this method is the simultaneous hands-off styling that occurs. When I am ready to take off the helmet, the ends of my hair have already been flawlessly sculpted and the roots are ready for a quick ‘do’. The accumulated sweat makes for a remarkable styling agent that quickly dries in place. One quick finger comb does the trick. No need for dryers, irons, sprays, or ties. Less is more. Dirty is the new black. Kidding. Seriously, who do you take me for… fresh sweat is clean. Trust me.
It got me thinking, and after some serious reflection I realize that it’s not that I’m against grooming and styling and such, but that my approach is just a little unconventional. I maintain clean on a regular basis, save kempt for the slightly special occasions, and even get classy every once in a great while. And I never find a brush necessary. Don’t be fooled into thinking that I just don’t care. In fact, my alternative methods are a direct result of my vanity. Blow dryers take time and dry out your hair, which is why I choose air drying. I do this on my commute, and find that the vents in my helmet are perfectly suited to it. The helmet technique not only dries my hair thoroughly, evenly, and naturally, but adds volume and a slight to dramatic wave, depending on the frequency and speed of wind gusts. The other advantage to this method is the simultaneous hands-off styling that occurs. When I am ready to take off the helmet, the ends of my hair have already been flawlessly sculpted and the roots are ready for a quick ‘do’. The accumulated sweat makes for a remarkable styling agent that quickly dries in place. One quick finger comb does the trick. No need for dryers, irons, sprays, or ties. Less is more. Dirty is the new black. Kidding. Seriously, who do you take me for… fresh sweat is clean. Trust me.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Surprise, surprise
Someday I plan on writing something profound. Something so insightful or creative that I will have to take a pen name for anyone to take it seriously. But that day is clearly not today. Nope, I am too young to know a whit about anything. And even this I am not so sure about. Ironic isn’t it? Clearly I am confused. But I’m willing to put that aside just now, if you are. You are. Good, good. That’s the attitude I like to see. You are pressing on, hoping to glean something, anything from my scrawling hand. For now I have another one of my stories, the type that don’t need imagination or interpretation. A little anecdote from my days thus far. One that is a little off, and therefore somehow noteworthy. I do appreciate your patience in the drawn out quest for something worth saying. My deadline is quite literally death, and I need deadlines. So I may be dying before I find anything much worth saying. In the meantime I give you this…
Head injuries. That got your attention no doubt. You are hoping for an explanation. No, no, this story is rather recent, so don’t jump to conclusions. You know, life is always full of surprises, sometime good, sometime very well disguised as not good. And let’s face it, sometimes things are just baaad, but you go forward and find something good to do with it. Don’t worry, I’m not going to pull out the lemon analogy. There’s one I hate, even if it does have a point. Well, on a generic Thursday I had an interview with some guys who are opening a corner grocery/deli. A funny little small-world thing happened when I found out that the owner knows my former boss from Atkinson’s. He likes Tom, and Tom likes me (or did, I’m assuming he would remember how much he loved me and begged me to come back). I don’t know how they know each other, Tom is from Idaho and mister new market man is from England. But a good coincidence eh? There’s nothing like networking to land you a job, even if its dumb luck. And you realize you can use a little dumb luck when you learn that you are only one of forty or so applicants. To be a cashier. A very prestigious line of work.
Unfortunately, this little bit of luck is probably overshadowed by the fact that my first impression was probably less than, well, impressive. I don’t know if I could have wowed them on a good day, but remember, this day was a little off. I was a little off. I don’t remember too much, other than sitting perched on a very tall chair, dangling my feet in a most professional way. And trying to sit up straight, and alert. I don’t think I said much. I couldn’t think of any questions. I think I went along with whatever they said. Let me just say that I don’t expect them to contact me for a second interview. Not unless Tom happens to call up and mention how magnificently I performed my cashier duties back in Idaho. I did mention crashing before I arrived, but I doubt they took much note of it.
I didn’t. I met Ashley at a Chai Lounge right after presenting myself as a witless want-to-be clerk at my interview. She asked what was wrong with me. How offensive. She called me slow. Said that I was slurring my speech and screwing up my word choice. Well, uh… nooo. I mean, “I crashed.” That was my explanation. I got a look. Fine. I explained the story… I hit ice near Cowen Park and slammed my head into the street. And the rest of my body. Head hurt, and the rest of my body was also not feeling so hot. The head was also feeling a little sluggish, which Ashley confirmed to be true. She mentioned doctors and concussions, to which I replied “nonsense.”
We sat there for some time, had some good conversations. I don’t remember what about, but good conversation. Barbara showed up. Good surprise, a very good time. I love those two. Darkness fell and stomachs and parking meters needed feeding, so we decided to go make some dinner. Ok, so here’s the part where the yucky surprise (namely the meeting of road and bike, of brain and boulevard) leads to something good that would otherwise not have happened. Obviously my confidence was shaken, but you get back on the horse, right? So I did that for a while. But then I saw some more ice and lots of cars and not much shoulder and some hill and the descending darkness making all of it so ambiguous and horrifyingly scary… I was not ok with all of this. What’s the word? Terrified, unreasonably terrified. Petrified. I couldn’t do it. I’d get a grip tomorrow, or maybe when the snow and ice melted away, leaving the roads approachable once again. I’m usually pretty level-headed about this kind of stuff, but my head was wonky. So clearly I got off and walked the horse back.
Well, on my way back to the metaphorical barn, I was caught off guard by someone yelling at me. From where? I didn’t see anyone. Great, my problems are bigger than I thought. Now I’m crazy and stupid. Alas, I looked up and saw a man waving from a balcony across the street. Oh boy… “I locked myself out.” Oh. He’s real, that’s good. “Uh-oh,” I reply in relief. But he had his keys on him. And I caught them, which was pretty exciting I have to say. I wasn’t counting on it. Ha-ha! The good Samaritan…. Was having trouble with the key. Shoot. It goes in, and does not turn. I try again. I try two, three more times, meanwhile the poor man upstairs is freezing and wondering why he couldn’t have found a more competent rescuer. Finally I admit defeat and walk back within view of the balcony man. “It’s not working, it’s the brass key right?” The patient, freezing man directs me to the other door, the one on the right. There are two?? I go back. Yes, two doors indeed. Which is excellent news. For one thing, the key actually did open the other door, quite easily. And for another, I was glad to note that this meant that I wouldn’t have to enter the part of the house where the fierce snarling and barking was coming from. It was a mild concern, but it had crossed my mind. It also crossed my mind that perhaps the whole stranded thing was a setup and that the nice man was actually planning to catch me and feed me to his carnivorous little dog. I took my chances. For which he was grateful. Brief introductions, his name started with a Y… minor chit chat…. And I was on my way. Riding again with renewed confidence. For about a hundred feet before I convinced myself once again that riding on ice is the most terrible thing in the world and proceeded to walk most of the rest of the way home.
The rest of the evening was pleasant, filled with food and more friends joining in. Excellent surprises. Especially the phone call from dear Gen Sofie in Chicago. We all got to say hello, and three of us will be her bridesmaids…. Oh what a night. To follow such a day. I’m not sure if I should have tried helping Barbara practice driving a standard transmission on this particular evening, but its ok. Though I wonder how helpful I was... Anyway, I still have a lingering headache a few days later, and I still would rather have not hit that particular patch of ice in that particular way. But uh, what can I say? The rest of the day was quite good, the balcony guy was saved because I was walking not riding, and it’s good to know that someone is willing to take you to the emergency room even if they have to get up early in the morning (and even if you refuse).
Head injuries. That got your attention no doubt. You are hoping for an explanation. No, no, this story is rather recent, so don’t jump to conclusions. You know, life is always full of surprises, sometime good, sometime very well disguised as not good. And let’s face it, sometimes things are just baaad, but you go forward and find something good to do with it. Don’t worry, I’m not going to pull out the lemon analogy. There’s one I hate, even if it does have a point. Well, on a generic Thursday I had an interview with some guys who are opening a corner grocery/deli. A funny little small-world thing happened when I found out that the owner knows my former boss from Atkinson’s. He likes Tom, and Tom likes me (or did, I’m assuming he would remember how much he loved me and begged me to come back). I don’t know how they know each other, Tom is from Idaho and mister new market man is from England. But a good coincidence eh? There’s nothing like networking to land you a job, even if its dumb luck. And you realize you can use a little dumb luck when you learn that you are only one of forty or so applicants. To be a cashier. A very prestigious line of work.
Unfortunately, this little bit of luck is probably overshadowed by the fact that my first impression was probably less than, well, impressive. I don’t know if I could have wowed them on a good day, but remember, this day was a little off. I was a little off. I don’t remember too much, other than sitting perched on a very tall chair, dangling my feet in a most professional way. And trying to sit up straight, and alert. I don’t think I said much. I couldn’t think of any questions. I think I went along with whatever they said. Let me just say that I don’t expect them to contact me for a second interview. Not unless Tom happens to call up and mention how magnificently I performed my cashier duties back in Idaho. I did mention crashing before I arrived, but I doubt they took much note of it.
I didn’t. I met Ashley at a Chai Lounge right after presenting myself as a witless want-to-be clerk at my interview. She asked what was wrong with me. How offensive. She called me slow. Said that I was slurring my speech and screwing up my word choice. Well, uh… nooo. I mean, “I crashed.” That was my explanation. I got a look. Fine. I explained the story… I hit ice near Cowen Park and slammed my head into the street. And the rest of my body. Head hurt, and the rest of my body was also not feeling so hot. The head was also feeling a little sluggish, which Ashley confirmed to be true. She mentioned doctors and concussions, to which I replied “nonsense.”
We sat there for some time, had some good conversations. I don’t remember what about, but good conversation. Barbara showed up. Good surprise, a very good time. I love those two. Darkness fell and stomachs and parking meters needed feeding, so we decided to go make some dinner. Ok, so here’s the part where the yucky surprise (namely the meeting of road and bike, of brain and boulevard) leads to something good that would otherwise not have happened. Obviously my confidence was shaken, but you get back on the horse, right? So I did that for a while. But then I saw some more ice and lots of cars and not much shoulder and some hill and the descending darkness making all of it so ambiguous and horrifyingly scary… I was not ok with all of this. What’s the word? Terrified, unreasonably terrified. Petrified. I couldn’t do it. I’d get a grip tomorrow, or maybe when the snow and ice melted away, leaving the roads approachable once again. I’m usually pretty level-headed about this kind of stuff, but my head was wonky. So clearly I got off and walked the horse back.
Well, on my way back to the metaphorical barn, I was caught off guard by someone yelling at me. From where? I didn’t see anyone. Great, my problems are bigger than I thought. Now I’m crazy and stupid. Alas, I looked up and saw a man waving from a balcony across the street. Oh boy… “I locked myself out.” Oh. He’s real, that’s good. “Uh-oh,” I reply in relief. But he had his keys on him. And I caught them, which was pretty exciting I have to say. I wasn’t counting on it. Ha-ha! The good Samaritan…. Was having trouble with the key. Shoot. It goes in, and does not turn. I try again. I try two, three more times, meanwhile the poor man upstairs is freezing and wondering why he couldn’t have found a more competent rescuer. Finally I admit defeat and walk back within view of the balcony man. “It’s not working, it’s the brass key right?” The patient, freezing man directs me to the other door, the one on the right. There are two?? I go back. Yes, two doors indeed. Which is excellent news. For one thing, the key actually did open the other door, quite easily. And for another, I was glad to note that this meant that I wouldn’t have to enter the part of the house where the fierce snarling and barking was coming from. It was a mild concern, but it had crossed my mind. It also crossed my mind that perhaps the whole stranded thing was a setup and that the nice man was actually planning to catch me and feed me to his carnivorous little dog. I took my chances. For which he was grateful. Brief introductions, his name started with a Y… minor chit chat…. And I was on my way. Riding again with renewed confidence. For about a hundred feet before I convinced myself once again that riding on ice is the most terrible thing in the world and proceeded to walk most of the rest of the way home.
The rest of the evening was pleasant, filled with food and more friends joining in. Excellent surprises. Especially the phone call from dear Gen Sofie in Chicago. We all got to say hello, and three of us will be her bridesmaids…. Oh what a night. To follow such a day. I’m not sure if I should have tried helping Barbara practice driving a standard transmission on this particular evening, but its ok. Though I wonder how helpful I was... Anyway, I still have a lingering headache a few days later, and I still would rather have not hit that particular patch of ice in that particular way. But uh, what can I say? The rest of the day was quite good, the balcony guy was saved because I was walking not riding, and it’s good to know that someone is willing to take you to the emergency room even if they have to get up early in the morning (and even if you refuse).
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