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Monthly Archives: April 2018
When I was five years old, I was eating lunch at my desk in Kindergarten. I clutched a pack of mayonnaise that my five year old hand could not manage to rip open. I didn’t want to use my teeth, and I wasn’t about to ask my partner, Kenny Harvey, to open it, because obviously he had cooties and would infect both me and my mayonnaise. So, I did what anyone would do. I squeezed it. Nothing happened. I squeezed harder, bringing it closer to my body for leverage. Naturally, a packet of mayonnaise can only withstand so much pressure, and it promptly shot out and straight up my nose with a measurable force. I had mayonnaise not only in my nose, but in my eyes, in my hair, on my shirt, my pants as it dripped. I was, by all accounts, a mess. I was sent home for a bath and change of clothes. I don’t remember any more events of this nature until 5th grade, when I was sitting next to Brandon Gallespie this time, who was trying to use his modern glue pen. You remember: they were the size of the jumbo magic markers, filled with clear glue, and had a round spongy end for blotting the exact amount you needed onto your construction paper. Neat, and helped regulate drips and excess application. It was the start of the school year, and all our supplies were brand new and sparkling. Brand…
I’ve had a semi-eventful weekend, as far as things go in my hermit life. Friday morning, as usual, found me at IHOP. I love their crepes, what can I say? When I opened the first set of doors, I was greeted by a buggy full of grocery bags stuffed with…well, stuff, I guess. Possessions. Clearly the style favored by the homeless. Seated on the bench, facing the bright sunshine coming in over the tops of the trees, was an old black woman. “Good morning,” I chirped brightly to her. Then I realized she must be the owner of the buggy and bags, and probably had some mental health issues and would not understand me. “Good morning,” she returned clearly. Huh. How bout that? Before I had time to puzzle on her much more, I was led to my table. The thought did cross my mind that if I were a better person I would offer for her to dine with me, but I’m not that brave. When I looked back for her, she and her buggy were gone. The poor waitress was the server for the entire dining room, and looked like I felt most days. She was making laps with drinks, straws, and food. Another girl finally showed up to help and she relaxed a little. I’ve discovered it’s pretty much impossible for me not to eavesdrop at IHOP. I’m by myself…
I hear sirens. I’ve heard sirens all day. I thought I’d long become accustomed to them, growing up on this old curvy road with the ambulance station right across the hill, and then working in a store situated on a main thoroughfare. I hardly notice them anymore. But I did this time, because there were so many of them. And they were so close. And they kept on and on and on. Plus, Shug was gone on a 250 errand. Those seem to be becoming more frequent, as he finds more upgrades he wants to do to his weekend transportation. I sent him a quick text to make sure the sirens weren’t for him. He answered me mercifully quick that he was at his destination, and he had sure enough seen all the fire trucks headed down the highway. For most people, that would be the end of it. They would perhaps utter a prayer for the unfortunate souls requiring the emergency response, but they would get back to their sunshine-y Saturday. But I paused a minute longer, as more sirens joined the cacophony. They were now approaching from all directions. As soon as they arrived onscene, the noise would shut off, only to be replaced with a distant-for-now siren. For a few minutes, there was peace, and then, one by one, the high wail of the ambulance shrieked and tore away. Transporting emergency traffic, I thought. Must be bad. I…
Sometimes I think I’m doing all right, that I’ve got my act at least on stage, if not together. These are generally the times I’m comparing my life to the people you see in the news who have their heads stuck in pickle jars and the like. Other times, I embrace the fact that I’m batshit crazy and there’s simply nothing that can be done for my affliction. Today I thought I was doing alright. I even remembered to accessorize. Of course, when I got to work things took a nosedive, but that’s par for the course. My confidence was restored later, though, when the secretary of a large corporation requested a contract that I was reasonably sure I sent over last week. Digging through email archives, I unearthed it, and sent it back to her, along with the one from our insurance agent. She wrote back, apologizing profusely, blaming a lack of coffee on her slip. I was only too glad to soothe her, saying I was just glad I wasn’t the only one who goofed and felt crazy. It’s always nice when people who seem so professional are just as nutty as the rest of us. I have discovered this is nearly everyone. By the time we had finished our little conversation, she was signing her emails “Cait” instead of her full name with initial credentials 🙂 In celebration of making…
