So a Woman Walks into a Bar with A Ham Under Her Arm...

“So I’m wondering what you’d do with a bone-in ham,” she says.

I squint at her.  “Why?  What’d you hear?”

Tamra leans back in her chair, gives me a look from across the top of her desk, a work-appropriate mixture of acceptance and sorrow.  She shakes her head at me.  “I know things are a little tough for you right now…”

I continue to squint.  “And you just so happen to have a spare ham?”

She smiles.  “Actually, yes.”

“On you?”

“Yes.”

"You brought it to work."

She nods.  

We stare at each other.

She breaks first.

“Someone gave it to Phil and I for Easter.  Apparently they haven’t noticed that I’m a vegetarian.  On top of that I’m watching Phil’s sodium intake even if he won’t, so we have no need for a ham.  It’s frozen solid.  You want it?”

Do I want a free ham?

Why I oughta…

And so there I was, yesterday afternoon, waiting for the bus, the temperatures in the 90s, an ice-cold and rock-hard pig rear cradled in my arms.

Not that anyone noticed.

Desperately trying to appreciate summer, the shortest and sweetest of Minnesota seasons, my fellow Minneapolitans and I struggle against the hot, humid wind, smiling at each other in that “well, what’re ya gonna do?” way we have.  All around me, men mop their foreheads with handkerchiefs while women hold their skirts flat against the assailing winds.  Meanwhile, my hair, long known for its ability to foretell the weather -- and no doubt in cahoots with the young woman standing next to me with the pink dreads -- leaps energetically toward the sky, divides into clumps, then plasters itself against my sweaty forehead, neck, and arms.

The bus arrives and we queue up.

And I board, safe in the knowledge that not only did someone have a ham but when they thought of giving it away they thought of me.

And that I am almost certainly the only one on the bus with a frozen ham in my lap.

Not too shabby for a Thursday.


Have a good weekend everyone!  Come back tomorrow!