On the Other Hand, I Can Belch When I Feel Like It

Hello hello hello!  Acme Gravel and Grommets Corporate lackey here!  I’m so glad you dropped by!

You know, I don’t always come into work on time, but when I do, rest assured it coincides with the days that there is no one else on the floor.  People on vacations, people working from home (WFH, or as those in the know say, “whiffing”), people working from, oh, who knows where.  It’s the anything-goes 21^st century, where people take conference calls from the beach and people in the office are alone with their computers and overcome with the sound of the heating/cooling system, a gentle whoosh that makes you grab last winter’s shawl and contemplate the under-desk nap you’ve been meaning to take for the last 30 years.

An intern skulks by. Backpacked and pale, she heads toward the elevator bank, beaten down through long hours (here and at school) and a propensity for introversion.  Poor thing.  She hasn’t built up any work defenses yet. Shall I tell her of “the ropes”?  Tell her where the good pens are hidden?  Would she possibly be interested in knowing of the offices most likely to produce quality, under-desk naptime?

Far down the hall, the World’s Busiest Assistant is whistling.  She’s been in this line of work since certain fish took to land and is remarkably unwilling to learn anything beyond what she already knows.  But oh!  The pressure!  Has she told you of the time she had to order lunch for 20 and THEY FORGOT THE NAPKINS?

She will.  

And on the day she tells me again, I shall smite her.

Note to Self:  Must warn intern of making eye contact with the WBA, that to agree to lunch is madness, that she should never leave with her to a third location. 

Ah. 

So there was a reason for me coming in today, after all.

Nature’s Bounty; or What’s with the Discarded Hair Ties Everywhere?!

The streets are full of promise for those clever enough to watch for it.

Take, for example, hair ties.  Why, if a gal plays her cards right, she may never buy an elastic hair tie again.  And as someone who regularly pulls her hair into a my-hair-turns-to-baling-twine-in-this-humidity yoga braid – much like your common, everyday braid but with more sweat – I gotta say, let the savings begin!

I mean, look around.  Bus stops, intersections, sidewalks.

Who are these people?  Clearly they’re on their way somewhere.  Is that them, over there, the ones with the flowing locks?  Is it those folks over there, the ones with their hair in their faces?

Why do these people hate hair ties?

Or perhaps, the hair ties are migrating.  

Maybe they’re tired of that mop you call a head of hair and have just quit, maybe thinking of going into a bit of light cinching. 

Perhaps, after a life of living in the cough-drop, Kleenex, hand sanitizer confines of a purse they’ve finally absconded of their own accord.

Most of the time, I am alone when the ground ties make themselves known to me.  And I always feel that the experience would be so much more enhanced – if you can believe that! – if there were someone with me.

“Look at that,” I’d say.  “Another free hair tie!”

And then that person would shake their head sadly.  “Oh, Pearl,” they’d say.

And then I’d just tap the side of my nose and wink.  Because I’m the one with the free hair ties.

Mid-Winter Reflection; or Is that Brownie Batter on your Lips?

It bores even me to say it, but dang.

It’s cold.

It’s always been cold. 

As is common for my people at this time of year, I’ve clean forgotten the sodden heat of a Minneapolis summer; the brisk, clear skies of fall; the loamy, promising fragrance of a spring day. 

All that is, and ever was, is the possibility of an icy death.

It was eight below zero at the bus stop this morning.  I mention this not by way of bragging or inspiring your pity but simply so that I can then say this:  It’s going to warm up over 40 degrees by Saturday, all the way to freezing.

And don’t think that we don’t get a perverse pleasure out of saying things like that, out of pointing out to lesser, softer beings, that we regularly experience 100-degree swings in and out of our comfort zones.

Because we do get a perverse pleasure out of saying things like that.  This is what keeps us warm:  the knowledge that we are special, if not in our ability to “keep on keeping on” then in our ability to meet the bright, hectic look in our fellow Minnesotans’ eyes as we clap each other on the back whilst declaring “Ha!  Only nine more Mondays until spring!”

It is here where we shut our eyes, ever so briefly, and envision going home, whipping up a batch of brownie batter, and giving up, just laying in the tub hoping our absence at work goes unnoticed until the thaw.

It’s warming up 40 degrees this weekend.   

Only nine more Mondays until spring.

You Don’t Own Me, Dishwasher

I’ve had it with that dishwasher.

Not the guy at Nye’s, even if he does pretend not to know English for “fork” and laughs at my attempt to remember the Spanish for it. 

I refer to that machine wedged under my kitchen counter.  The one with the helpful demeanor.

I’ve never had a dishwasher before.

“You should use it,” Kurt says.  “It’s like a machine.  That washes your dishes.” 

So I did.  You might not know it to look at me, but I’m pretty amenable.  You want me to use the dishwasher?  Sure.  Why not.

But the dishwasher, she mocks me. 

‘Baked on,’ I think to myself, pulling a pan from the rack.  ‘Sparkling, but encrusted.’

I scrape.  I rinse.  I do everything but actually wash them before I have them washed.

And yet, every now and then, there it is:  the pot in which I had mashed the potatoes, the fork I had neglected to massage clean. 

I can get this kind of abuse anywhere.

So I’ve returned to the sink.  It’s winter here in the Land of 10,000 Lakes, and a basin of hot water has its appeal.  I stare out the window at the house next door and think about spring, think about my Grandma’s hands in the sudsy water, think about having discovered that yogurt and kiwi turns into a bitter, inedible mess overnight.

Every day, people.  Every day is a learning experience. 

Well It WAS Called a HoJo...

“I’m starting to have feelings about this gal,” I say.

Mary leans over the railing and peers into the dark of a heavy Florida night.  She jerks her chin toward the woman lurching through the parking lot.  That one?   

I nod. 

“What kind of feelings,” she says, straightening.  “Deep-rooted feelings?  Feelings of longing and/or despair?”

Mary’s been a little keyed up since the flight.

“Feelings of nausea and fascination,” I say. 

We watch as the woman, a tall angular female clad in less than a yard of black fabric, walks through the lot.  The five-, maybe six-inch heels she is wearing give her the perplexing, jerky grace of a spider one shot of vodka past sobriety.  Pale and, well, lunar, somehow, she knocks sharply on a door several down and one floor below us. 

The door opens, and she slips through it.

Mary turns to me.  “What are ya thinkin’?”

“It’s not pizzas she’s delivering.”

“A hooker?"  Mary leans over the railing again, cranes her neck toward the door on the ground floor.  "So suspicious,” she says.  She straightens up, holds out a piece of fruit.  “Meth-addict orange?”

I take it.  The woman who had approached us at the convenience store a couple blocks down had had the hood of her jacket stuffed with them.  “Mmm,” I say.  “Meth-addict oranges are the juiciest.”

Mary nods.  “Nothing says Sunshine State like a parking-lot fruit deal."

We sit down, peel our oranges, drop the skins into the ash can outside our room.

"Ima giver 10 minutes."  Said from around a mouth full of orange.

"That's just rude," I say.  I spit out a seed.  "Terms and conditions are a good three minutes alone."

"You know everything," Mary says.

I shrug nonchalantly.  "I read," I say.

We laugh, eat another orange.

"What did we pay for these again?"

"Three bucks."  Mary pops another segment into her mouth, stands up, and leans over the railing again.  "Door opening!"

I stand in time to see her leave.  Mary hands me a piece of orange, and we watch her adjust a strap or two as she heads back to parking lot.

People never look up.

We watch as she walks from one side of the parking lot to the next,  She pulls a phone out, texts something.  She puts her phone in her purse, then disappears behind a parked car.

Mary tugs at my sleeve.  "Is she doing what I think she's doing?"

I shrug, grimace a bit.  But she is.  The woman is peeing behind a parked car.

"We should stay here more often,"I say.

"Both inexpensive and scenic," Mary offers.  She puts a piece of orange peel in her mouth, gives me a grin.  "What-say we find a new place to stay tomorrow?"

After a few moments, the woman stands, adjusts her clothing and checks her phone.  Another quick text, and she walks through the parking lot and toward another door just a few doors from the first one.

And we watch as she knocks again.  

Mary and Pearl Go To Florida; or Why Yes, I Do Drink ‘Em Eight at a Time. Why Do You Ask?

Hey!  There you are!  Today’s story is a continuation of yesterday’s, wherein I find myself pressured to play pool, which was a continuation of the story the day before where Mary makes a friend.

You can also ready about our adventures at airline security here and here.

Because what says “trip to Florida” more than security hassles and bar friends?

Peter Frampton’s doppelganger has fallen on hard times.

It doesn’t seem to have affected his ability to slam a beer, however; and Mary and our new friend Ken watch bemusedly as the scrawny man holds up a proprietary finger.

“I’ll take another, Arlene, and how about a –“  He turns to me.  “You want a drink?  I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Gin and tonic,” I say.  “Extra limes, please.”

“AWWWWW!” Mary moans.  I turn around to see a woman in a college sweatshirt lose her turn on the wheel.

“You’re taking that Wheel of Fortune thing kinda seriously over there,” I call out.

“I am a simple woman.  I have simple pleasures,” she says.

There is the sound of quarters being slammed, the sound of balls dropping.

Mr. Frampton sets the rack on the table.

“Hey,” I say.  “Would you mind if I rack ‘em and you break?  It’s been years since I’ve played, and I don’t want to start this game with a lousy break.”

“You’ll do fine,” he says, reaching down for the balls.

“I’m serious,” I say.  “I was never much of a breaker, and it’s been so long.”

He shakes his head.  “Nope,” he says.  “I like to rack ‘em.”

I take a deep breath.

Arlene brings our drinks.  “Thank you,” I say.

I notice that Peter doesn’t tip.

I select a stick, roll it around at the unoccupied end of the table.  I find a straight one on the third attempt and chalk it.

I turn around.  Mary has turned at the same time.  She raises one eyebrow.  I curl my lip at her.  She goes back to Ken and the Wheel of Fortune.

“OK,” I say.  I bend over the table, concentrate on the bright yellow ball at the head of the triangle – only to feel Mr. Frampton creep up behind me.

I whirl on him.  “So now you want to break?”

He gives me an oily smile.  “No, no,” he says.

“Then get away from me,” I say, smiling.  I bend over the table again, pull the cue back –

In the history of breaks, they will speak of this one.  Rarely does one witness such slop, such disregard for the beauty and grace that is the game of billiards.

The edges of the racked triangle roll anemically just inches from their original positions. 

The core remains unmoved.

Not a single ball goes in. 

I turn, humiliated.    “I haven’t played in years,” I apologize.

“Can’t win ‘em all,” offers Ken.

“Or even some,” Mary winks.

“Why you little…” I threaten.

“Why I oughta…” Mary returns.

Mr. Frampton has been waiting for me.  “Go ahead,” I say. 

“I wanted you to watch,” he says.

And that’s when it happened.

Ball after ball after ball, I watch as the man who had begged me to play pool, who promised a friendly game, ran the table. 

Following the “break” – and there’s no other way to remember it than with quotation marks – I didn’t play again.

“Eight ball,” he says – is that a smug tone? – “corner pocket”. 

And it was over.

He reaches for a hug.  “Good game.”

I push away.  “What was the point of that?  Seriously.  I’m having a good time with my friend, I tell you ‘no, I don’t want to play’ how many times, you beg me to play, tell me it’ll be a friendly game, and then you run the table?  What is that?”

“Do you want to play again?”

I am incredulous.  “What?!” 

I turn to Mary, who is now standing next to me.  “Dude,” she says.  “Not cool.”

He grins.  “Let’s play again.  No showboating.  A nice friendly game.”

“Forget it,” I say.  “We’re done here.”

“But –“

Mary puts a hand on my back, guides me to the bar.  “You heard her, buddy.  Nothing personal, but time to take a hike.”

“Well can I at least –“

Mary and I say it together:  “NO.”

“This guy bothering you ladies?”  Ken, Korean War Vet, drinker of Windsor Cokes, rises.  He looks happy.  He looks like he’s thinking of cracking his knuckles. 

“Not anymore he ain’t,” Mary says.  She turns to him.  “You was just about to leave, wudden ya?”

Peter Frampton’s double returns to his end of the bar.

And a gin and tonic, extra limes, appears.

“From Lance,” Arlene says.  Lance, AKA Peter Frampton, raises his beer at me.

“Lance,” I say, “thank you, but don’t buy me any drinks, okay?”

Lance, however, doesn’t take direction well, and in the next hour, five G&Ts line up in front of me.

Mary signals Arlene over, slips her a ten.  “Arlene, honey, if he’s gonna keep buying her drinks she’s not going to drink, can you make ‘em Windsor Cokes?” 

“Sure can,” she says. 

Mary leans over, wraps an arm around me.  She hasn’t had a drink in five years, but the arm around my shoulder remembers those days fondly.  “Who really won that game, huh?  Free drinks for Ken!”  Mary chuckles, squeezes me tighter. 

“Ya still got it, Pearl.  Ya still got it.”

Mary and Pearl go to Florida; or Mr. Frampton Appears to Have Fallen on Hard Times

A continuation of yesterday's story, which was a continuation of Monday's and Tuesday's.  Catch up, won't you?  I'll wait right here.  Ooooh, maybe I should pick up some Danish...


The bar could be anywhere. 

Mary digs an elbow into my ribs.  “Whaddaya think?  Think we’re the prettiest gals here?”

We laugh.  “By way of having all our teeth,” I say.

“And hair.”

“And,” I say, quietly, “by being among a handful that don’t appear to have a meth problem.”

She nods.  “All situations should be judged thusly,” she says.  I give her a look.

“What?” she says.  “You aren’t the only one who gets to say stuff like that!”

And we laugh again.  Because we are funny.

It’s early evening.  The bar is three quarters full, Wheel of Fortune is on the TV in the corner, and a song about somebody sic’ing something on a chicken is on the juke box.

But like stepping into the shower with your socks on, something seems wrong. What is it? What's that -- Hey!  What’s that smell?

Ah.  Cigarette smoke.

“Smoking in a bar,” Mary says.  Suitably, she sounds almost breathless.

“That’s crazy.”  I say.  “Remember when that was allowed?”

“Pew,” she says, wrinkling her nose.  “We’re gonna stink.”

“You’re gonna stink,” I say.

“No, you,” she counters.

And we laugh some more.

“Hey.”

I turn around.  A man best visualized as an aging Peter Frampton is standing there.

This is not lost on Mary, who starts to hum “Do You Feel Like We Do” under her breath. 

He is thin, and, somehow grubby, although it’s hard to pinpoint why.  Perhaps because he has spent far too much time in the sun.  Perhaps he just needs a good moisturizer. 

“Do you play pool?” he says.

I shake my head.  “Haven’t played in years,” I say.  “Anyway, I’m here with my friend.”

“Yeah,” he says, “but you could still play pool.”

“I could,” I say, “but I’m not.”

Mary starts to laugh, and Mr. Frampton finds this reassuring.

“But you could,” he says.  “Please?  Please play pool with me?”

And just like that – just like that! – I resolve that I will not play pool with him.  “No,” I say.  “Thank you anyway, but we’re on vacation and –“

He breaks in.  “Somewhere north, am I right?”

Mary, a woman most accurately described as having a current skin tone closely resembling her original, fresh-out-of-the-box color – that is to say, alabaster – laughs.  “We got ourselves a live one!” she hollers.  The guys at the bar turn around, give us the once-over, and return to the Wheel of Fortune.

“Come on.  Please,” he says.  “Just play pool with me.”

“Why?” I say.  “Ask someone else.”

“You’re the prettiest gal in here.”

I turn to Mary, our eyes lock, and our jaws drop in mock indignation.  “I’ll have you know, sir,” Mary says, puffing her chest, “that I’ve won a number –“

“—a number!” I shout.

“—of competitions based solely on my looks!”

“And your ability to hold your liquor,” I add.

“And your liquor,” she concedes.

But Peter Frampton is not dissuaded.  “Please,” he says.  “It’ll be an easy game.  No showboating, no pressure.  A friendly game.  I just want to play pool with you.”

I look at Mary, who shrugs.  “Go ahead,” she says.  “I’ll just sit at the bar and talk to—“  she leans over, taps the shoulder of a Korean War vet, from the looks of his jacket, “—what’s your name?”

“Ken,” he says. 

“I’m gonna talk to Ken here,” she says.  She sits down on the stool next to Ken.  “Go on.  Have fun, kids.”

Is there more?  Honey, we’re almost up to 600 words already, and you know there’s more!

Mary and Peggy go to Florida; or Small Bar, Anytown, USA

Did you miss me incur the pudgy-fingered wrath of airport Security?
Did you miss Mary actually get detained at airport Security?

It's not too late to catch up.  Go on -- take a click or two!  I'll go get a coffee and meet you back here in just a few...

In many ways, it’s a bar like any bar in the United States.  A pool table, a juke box, the smallest stuffed deer head I’ve ever seen.  It’s Florida, though; and this means that the bartender is 12, maybe 13, and the average age of the clientele is 70. 

Mary is seated next to a man in a silk VFW jacket.  He is grizzled.  Perhaps he drinks a bit.  A veteran of the Korean Conflict, Ken has a sparkle in his eye.

“I wasn’t always an old man,” he says to her.

“I’m not sure you’re old now,” she says.  “I see ya lookin’ at me.”  Ken has the look of the rake about him. 

“Ya see that guy over there?” he says.  “The one checking you out?  I could kick his ass for you, then write a song about it.”

Mary laughs, takes a drink of the Diet 7-Up in front of her.  “You’d do that,” she says from around the straw, “for me?”

“Damn right I would,” he says.  “That’s the kind of guy I am.”

I have been silent.  My ears on Mary and Ken, my eyes on the TV at the end of the bar, the drinks keep piling up in front of me. 

If that fluffy headed idiot thinks he can buy me off with drinks…

“Why don’t you just go ahead and drink them?”

I turn away from an episode of King of the Hill.  “Because I’ve got my own.”

“Well, I’ll take ‘em,” says Ken.  “Mary?  You want a couple of these?”

Sober for five years, Mary shakes her head.  “Uh-uh,” she says.  “But I’ll take your popcorn.”

Ken slides the popcorn over and then stands, places a hand on Mary’s shoulder.  “How long you here for?”

“Just a couple more days,” she says.

He nods briskly, removes his hand.  “Then I’ll say my good-byes now.  And I’ll give you this.”  He holds out his hand.  In it is a hundred dollar bill.

Mary looks at me; I look at her; and after the briefest of pauses, we nod at each other.

She smiles at him tenderly.  “Sorry, Ken,” she says.  “We are women of independent means.”

“It would make me happy,” he says, “to know you two had a good time here.”

“Man, meeting you is what makes it a good time.  You know that.”  And Mary, not one for extravagant displays of affection, puts her hands on his shoulders and kisses him on the cheek.

“You’re a good-lookin’ man, Ken.  Don’t you go forgetting me now.”

Ken tips his hat.  “Not likely, ma’am.”

Wait.  What fluffy headed idiot?  Come back tomorrow if you dare..