Reality Insists.
A low stone wall frames the patio.
In Spring,
We fill a dozen pots with flowers
To set upon the wall.
Inpatiens, Dahlias, Begonias surrounding the summer.
Once filled,
The heavy clay pots refuse to turn –
Refuse to give the northern petals face time with the sun.
This year,
We bought three light pots.
They sit by the side of their sturdier neighbors.
The bees –
Though I am sure they have noticed –
I have overheard the discussion –
Still visit.
The dahlias –
Not defiant –
Perhaps indifferent –
Still bloom.
But no one –
Not even this gaudy butterfly who flirts with everyone –
Not even she –
Would mistake for terra-cotta,
These common plastic pots,
Painted orange.
Likewise,
No one on this beach
Would mistake for that sunlit girl,
That decades-ago girl –
No one would mistake for that girl –
Long-limbed like Diana,
This loose-skinned woman,
This thick-waisted woman,
Straw hair,
Painted gold.
Itsy-Bitsy
It was appropriate that as we approached the beach the radio was playing,“She Wore An Itsy-Bitsy, Teenie-Weenie, Yellow Polka Dot Bikini.”
Not that what I was wearing was itsy-bitsy or teenie-weenie or even yellow polka dot.
But it was a bikini.
And I was afraid to come out of the locker.
I had promised my husband that this year I would buy a bikini. (I didn’t promise to wear a bikini – just to buy one.) He didn’t accompany me on that shopping expedition. Which was a good thing, because we stopped into a swimsuit shop on vacation this week before we hit the beach, and he liked a string bikini bottom with a fringed top. Luckily I already had a suit, and was able to demonstrate my frugality – which impresses my husband a lot more than demonstrating my modesty.
Back to the “Itsy-Bitsy” song. I was nine when that song was a hit in 1960. I remembering arguing with my sisters as to whether it was a yellow bathing suit with polka dots or a bathing suit in a different color and the polka dots were yellow. I did not like the ambiguity of the description. I still want precise descriptions today.
And I wondered why this girl would even buy a bathing suit that she was embarrassed to wear.
And now I know.
The level of discomfort in the store dressing room pales besides the intense self-consciousness in the bright sunlit, crowded beach.
Of course, everyone else was wearing a bathing suit. That helped a bit.
There were middle-aged ladies wearing what I used to wear – what my husband called my figure-skating outfit – you know – a full loose top with a little skirt. I was perfectly happy in my skating costume. But now I had a skinnier body and a bikini. I wasn’t sure I was happier.
There was a person in a string bikini with a fringed top. She was (maybe) seventeen.
“See,” my husband said. “You could wear that!”
“I am not only old enough to be her mother. I am old enough to be her grandmother.” I replied. “And that makes you old enough to be her grandfather. So avert your eyes, please.”
Yeah, right.
I sat under the umbrella, trying to be inconspicuous. I have always found it to be a comfort to find women who look worse than me. But I found myself plagued by the notion that I might be the one giving comfort this time.
“Look at the ridiculous old lady in the blue bikini!” I imagined the snickers of full-skirted women with the sun visors and the white thighs.
I’ll show them, I thought defiantly.
I’ll show them plenty, I thought worriedly.
I got up and walked to the water. A thousand eyes followed me. Or so it seemed. I especially worried about my feet. Eighty-nine percent of my body was exposed, but I was particularly bothered by my water shoes. Certainly big black ankle-top water shoes were not a good look with my azure bikini.
The water was cold. But the further I got in, the less of me was on display. So little by little I pushed myself in.
It felt pretty good. I have decent shoulders. I would go in up to my shoulders.
An old man approached me. He seemed to indicate that he had something to show me. I hoped it was not his dick.
It was a thermometer. “Can you read this?” he asked. “The numbers are too small for me without my reading glasses.” The water was seventy-eight degrees. Not bad for Rhode Island.
I began to enjoy myself in the waves.
Back on the shore, I saw a young woman approach the water. She was not fat. She was obese. She suffered from the kind of obesity where people stare. Where people wonder how the bones in her feet don’t break. How she gets into a car. How she dresses herself.
She was wearing a bathing suit. I wondered where you buy that big a bathing suit.
She walked into the water and plowed through the shoreline undertow. And a few minutes later, she was joined by some acquaintances. And they laughed and splashed and played in the surf.
I suddenly felt very light-hearted. And not because I had found someone who looked so much worse than me.
But because I was sure she was painfully self-conscious of her body.
And she was having fun ANYWAY.
“Good for you!” I thought,
I strode out of the water, and strutted back to the blanket in my blue bikini and big clumsy shoes.
“You look great!” said my husband.
“I feel great!” I said.
Me – Happy.
(And all of the bikini that you will see.)
What Makes It Special
A couple of weeks ago my husband dragged treated me to the big Manchester, Connecticut car show.
Each year at the peak of summer, this Connecticut town closes down a mile of Main Street and 900 antique cars line up for the benefit of the owners’ egos admiring spectators.
It’s not like I don’t appreciate the charm of a ’56 T-Bird. It’s the quarter-mile of 1970 Chevelles that makes my brain numb.
But it was a nice day for a two-mile walk – one mile down the south side and then the mile back on the north. Which on that day became three miles, because we had to park a very long distance away. (Long enough that we had to stop and use the bathroom before we ever got to Main Street.) Oh wait, make that three-and-a-half miles, as there were quite a few Packards that my husband had to cross the street to see. Heaven forbid that he would have to wait until we were really on that side of the street.
It takes a long time to look at 900 cars. But it is very educational. My husband likes to point out everything that is not original. Especially exhausts. “Tailpipe’s been replaced,” he sneers at a ’34 DeSoto. Chemical crap had come out of that tailpipe for more than seventy years. I am somewhat less surprised than my husband that it had deteriorated.
Around Mustang number 39, I began to think about lunch. I remembered that last year we had stopped to eat at a restaurant that I adored. But I couldn’t really remember what I had adored about it.
I recalled that I had ordered a salad. But I didn’t think that was what was triggering such fond memories. It was a salad, for God’s sake, not skinny jeans that made me look thirty.
But I kept a lookout for that restaurant. And eventually I spotted it. It was on the other side of the street. Good thing I hadn’t scolded my husband (too much) about crossing over when we would eventually get there anyway. And at the mention of Lunch (capital L), he was willing to take the extra steps.
We walked through the bar to get to the dining room. It was crowded, but I knew that wasn’t what had appealed to me. I haven’t gotten excited over a crowded bar since 1983.
The server was cute – but ditto on 1983.
I remembered exactly which salad once I saw the menu but I didn’t have much hope – although it did contain cheese, and that’s always a good sign.
I looked around at the decor. it was nice. The ceiling was tin, and I always like that. As a matter of fact, I have a tin ceiling in my living room at home. (With a nicer cornice, I might add.)
On the wall opposite us were framed photographs of bridges. It was were exceptionally pretty – both the photographs and the arrangement.
Photographs of bridges. And I guess something interesting was going on outside – probably something connected with a Chevelle.
The photos had nothing to do with this restaurant. Of course, nothing about the restaurant was what you might call “connected.” The name of the restaurant is Mulberry Street. It is on Main Street. They serve mostly pizza, not mulberries. And there were no mulberry scenes in the bridges. On the bar side, they had oars.
I liked those bridges very much. I wasn’t in love, however.
But then I saw it. Oh yes – that special something that so enamored me.
Do you see the photo on the very right? The image is obscured by the glare from the window?
That’s the one!
Lloyd Bridges
Blueberry Picking Rules
I went blueberry picking today. Late-season, late-in-the-afternoon is just the way I love it. The air is still, the rows of bushes straight and beckoning. Blueberry-picking is a serene activity.
I wish that everyone could experience blueberry-picking.
By ‘everyone’ – I don’t mean, like, ‘everyone’ everyone.
I’d like to suggest a few exclusions:
– If you are bound to be loudly disappointed because you remember when the blueberries were bigger, sweeter, firmer, juicier – please don’t come.
– If your children have an attention span under seven minutes and/or you are forced to yell “Stop That!” more than seven times a minute – please don’t come.
– If you have a story to tell that requires multiple uses of the phrases, “So then she goes…” and “So then I go…” – please don’t come.
– If you wish the bushes were closer to the parking lot – please don’t come.
– If your cell phone rings more than three times in a half-hour – please don’t come.
– If Rover has to participate – and has to poop – please don’t come.
– If you and your loved ones can’t keep track of each other, and you have to shout “Marco”/”Polo” on a regular schedule – please don’t come.
– If you feel the need to smuggle out blueberries in your purse to avoid the weigh-in – please don’t come
– If you shriek when a bee comes within 24 inches of you – please don’t come
– If the ambiance of blueberries compels you to grope your significant other’s private parts – please don’t come.
– If you can’t bear the thought of your kid eating something that has not yet been de-germed – please don’t come.
– If you need to sing more than one stanza of “I Found My Thrill on Blueberry Hill” – please don’t come.
– If, despite the 1,200 bushes available, you still want to pick from the one bush I have chosen – please don’t come.
Other than that –
Everyone’s welcome!
I Have No Shame
It’s gone.
I’ve always been a very self-conscious person.
And not only self-conscious. I’m “other-conscious” too.
Because, in addition to worrying incessantly about the impression I am making, I also worry about the impression someone else might be making.
Do you ever feel that way?
Embarrassed for the guy whose fly is down? For the lady with toilet paper stuck to her shoe?
I figure I am doing them a favor. They don’t have to be mortified. I’m mortified for them.
Until now.
I seem to have lost my sense of shame.
If someone acts like an idiot, hell, it’s okay with me.
There’s two ways this could go:
1. The Embarrassee is an ass. So I have found that it is perfectly fine if he is an ass in public. Poetic justice, really.
Like the teenager who shares her loud conversation with everyone on the street, until she walks into the fire hydrant.
Like the boss who, the day after she told me I had no leadership skills, gave a speech while gushing flop sweat.
Like the jerk with the sign telling the government to keep its hands off his Medicare.
2. The Embarassee is a genius. And by that I mean – lucky enough to enjoy himself without giving a shit about anyone else’s opinion. I am no longer embarrassed for the old lady who is dancing to the piped-in music in Stop & Shop. I’m envious.
And my admiration for blissful disregard for what’s proper seems to be growing all the time. Twice on Sunday, I found myself celebrating unabashed shamelessness.
We were out for a drive. A beautiful day to zip along the highway in the convertible. And as we passed one old, ordinary car, I noticed the driver had her hand out the window. Remember when you were a kid, how you would cup your hand out the window and let it surf the wind? How cool that felt? Well here was this older lady doing the same thing. Maybe she’s been doing it every day for fifty years. Maybe she just had a flash of memory and decided to experience that simple joy again.
On the way home is a busy street with an illogical stop sign that backs up the traffic. There is always a line of cars moving slowly and haltingly as they inch up to their turn at the stop sign. There’s a house on that corner. And on this day there was a very old man, all dressed up in a suit and a bow-tie. standing at the end of the driveway. As each car passed the driveway, this old guy applauded. What in the world is he thinking? I wondered as he clapped away. And it occurred to me that he perhaps thought it was a parade. And here we were in our convertible, the highlight of the parade. So I gave that guy my best royal wave.
*
Shouldn’t I Have This? ………… Shouldn’t I Have All Of This?
I want to live in a little house with a big porch on the seashore.
I want to live in an apartment in New York City with a geranium on the fire escape.
I want crisp white sheets and gingham curtains.
I want gilded mirrors and french porcelain.
I want rack of lamb with frilly paper panties on the bones.
I want a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich with a side of potato chips.
I want to appear before sold-out crowds who laugh and applaud.
I want to go for weeks without seeing another human being.
I want to write poetry that makes people cry.
I want to play video games.
I want to raise organic veggies and have chickens in the yard.
I want pizza delivery.
I want it to be warm and sunny all year.
I want to be snowed-in for a week.
I want an executive position with board meetings and stock options.
I want to retire and putter around the house in my pajamas.
I want rock-and-roll that shakes the pictures off my walls.
I want a Vivaldi adagio playing softly in the next room.
I want to climb mountains and run the rapids.
I want to take the convertible to a bed-and-breakfast.
I want to run for office and change the world.
I want to never read a newspaper again.
I want to read People magazine.
I want to read War and Peace.
I want to visit Spain and Tahiti and the Grand Canyon.
I want to throw away my suitcases for good.
I want to wear designer clothes and emerald earrings.
I want to live in sweatshirts and raggedy jeans.
I want to wear miniskirts and bikinis and have blond hair and be young forever.
I want to grow old gracefully, with delicate white hair and lovely laugh lines and eyes of wisdom.
Vanessa Redgrave, ageless at 76.
The Dishwashing Experience
The phenomenon of “Dishpan Diarrhea” really seemed to strike a chord with many readers.
(which I’ll admit is a strange metaphor, but who’s to say that diarrhea is not melodic?)
But I digress.
Since so many of you could relate to dish-washing avoidance, I figured I could milk the idea expound on the subject for one more post.
I don’t mind doing dishes. I have a dishwasher – which I didn’t have for most of my marriage – so it’s really no big deal. Stack the dishwasher, wash the pots and pans or delicate stuff, and clean the stove, table and countertops. And since we don’t have kids, it’s usually pretty quick work. (When my parents were empty-nesters, my father used to ask my mother why there were sometimes three forks.)
When we have company, it’s nice, though, to have a little help. And I almost always do. My husband is a model husband with an audience.
But not so much when we’re alone.
But as I said, it’s not hard and I don’t usually mind.
And he helps. I calculated the rate of help back in 2011, and it turned out he had helped with the dinner dishes at least 100 times – out of 7,045 dish-washing days. That’s 1.3%. But we’re halfway through 2013 now. I am sure he has helped out quite a bit more. He may be approaching 2%.
And he’s retired, so he does the breakfast dishes after I leave for work in the morning. It’s usually in the morning, anyway. I know because I have had a few calls at the office to ask, “Are the dishes in the dishwasher clean or dirty?” We’ve all had those calls.
Sometimes however, I have a strong suspicion that the breakfast dishes were put in the dishwasher when he heard my car coming up the driveway at the end of the day. But I have no proof of this.
And doing the breakfast dishes is certainly a big help. We have toast.
And let me digress again. I have stopped asking him at breakfast what he would like for dinner. Because it’s breakfast time – he ‘can’t even think’ about dinner. Meal planning requires a difficult shift in perception. It’s akin to time-travel.
He does help at dinner though. He brings the dishes to the counter near the sink. And he often asks me if I need help. He usually phrases that question as “Do you have enough room to let them drain?”
He’ll dry though, if I really don’t have enough room. I like it when he dries the dishes. Because I get even more help that just the drying. He generously points out the occasional infinitesimal spot I have left on a pan. I am thankful that he is so observant. I love the opportunity to improve my dishwashing skills.
He’s also a big help with stubborn stains. I have a favorite travel mug that I bring to work every day. It holds a lot of coffee and I can fill it at 7:45 and at noon I still have enough hot coffee for lunch. I hate to plug a brand (that hasn’t paid me), but let me just say that Thermos really knows how to make a thermos. It’s beginning to show its age though, and scrubbing the narrow inside can be hit-or-miss. So my husband offered to give it a good cleaning. And the next morning it was all shiny inside! The coffee tasted like carburetor cleaner for a day or two. But the mug was very clean.
And just this morning, Hubby was thoughtful again. We have one of those big Viking stoves with a built-in griddle on the cooktop. Because it was Sunday, I had made for breakfast a banana quiche that he likes. But I was speculating that I could turn that recipe into pancakes and cook them on the griddle, which would be quicker than baking the quiche.
“Oh, don’t do that. I don’t mind the wait, and cleaning that griddle is such a pain in the ass.”
And it is! And he knows it is! Because he has cleaned it once.
This week my husband has been extra helpful. I’ve had a stomach bug, and important deadlines at work. And he’s been great.
He did the dinner dishes TWICE this week.
TWICE!
And I didn’t ask him. He just did them.
And I’m sure it is just coincidental that also TWICE – after the dishwasher was loaded, and it was time for the pans – he said,
“I think I’ll just let these soak.”
“Mad Men”- or – “I’m Mad At Men”
I am not always the hippest person when it comes to pop culture – which you probably can tell because I used the word ‘hippest.’ At least I didn’t use ‘hep.’
Although I follow Fashion as my religion (at least for a woman my age; I would certainly never claim to be as smart as a teenager), I am not always sure who it is that I am following. I love Kate Beckinsale’s sensual style. Just don’t ask me who she is.
Anyway, what I am trying to explain is why I am only now discovering “Mad Men.”
I’d heard of it of course. And I’m kind of surprise that I wasn’t immediately interested. I spent a good deal of my career working in television, and most of it predicting whopping advertising sales. (It was Sports. Beer paid my salary.) And my husband sold print advertising. You’d think we’d both be fascinated by a show about the advertising industry.
And then of course there’s the “period piece” aspect of “Mad Men.” I mean, we are both period pieces ourselves. With a nostalgia for the sixties. The biggest friction in our marriage is the battle between The Beach Boys and The Beatles.
I’d been meaning to give “Mad Men” a try. But I could never find it. There must be something very compelling on opposite. Maybe “Toddlers and Tiaras” or “Pawn Stars.”
But Hurricane Sandy changed all that. We lost electricity for several days. Not a problem, though, because we have a big generator. So we had power to the TV – which is right up there with the well and the refrigerator.
But no cable. Yikes.
So I bit the bullet and joined Netflix.
And we watched some movies and then an episode of “Mad Men.”
And we were hooked. We watched a whole season that week.
WordPress is suggesting I add a photo here.
Here it is:
Mad (magazine) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
WordPress’ algorithm must be as much of a period piece as I am.
Back to “Mad Men.”
Mad Men, Not Mad Magazine
In the second episode, my husband and I started screaming at each other, “Look at the wall! Look at the wall!” There was his mother’s gold “tree sculpture” wall art spreading its 1960 limbs all across the living room set. That sculpture was still giving me the creeps in my mother-in-law’s parlor in 2003.
I love that kind of kitschy accuracy.
Of course, it isn’t completely accurate. Sterling Cooper’s staff discussed Marilyn Monroe’s death before they discussed the Bay of Pigs. (It’s possible that they discussed the Bay of Pigs sixteen months late because they had been busy at the office. And it’s possible I watched the episodes out of order. But I don’t think so.)
I love the old undergarments. It is so cool to see Big Girl panties (like I still wear) and a full slip. I wore a full slip until 1968. If you think your bra straps fall down a lot – you should see how slip straps slip.
My husband likes Joan’s breasts.
And he likes the old-fashioned ideals.
Like in the episode we watched last week. We have been able to catch up by watching two episodes in a row on Saturday nights. (That way we don’t miss “Pawn Stars.”) So we are now up to Season 5, and it’s 1966. Sterling Cooper Whatever has taken out a stupid want ad in order to shame their competitors,and as a result, they have an office full of African-Americans applying for a job. So the company has shamed itself into taking the ad seriously. And they do. Roger informs all the applicants that they have a position open for a secretary, and so all the men can leave.
Yup, that’s Equal Opportunity.
And I remarked to my husband, “Remember when the jobs were listed in the paper under “Help Wanted-Male” and “Help Wanted-Female”? I can’t believe I looked for a job that way and never realized how crazy it was.”
And he said, “It wasn’t crazy. There was nothing wrong with that.”
Trying to keep my face from becoming too purple, I took a breath and said, “Come on, how many jobs really require you to be a man or a woman?”
“Lots,” he said – just because he is going through his contradictory-ass phase. (I am hoping that he has only two more years in this phase, but I have heard from my mother it usually lasts for ten.)
“Name One,” I respond.
“Football Player.”
Oh yeah. The NFL always recruited via the Help Wanted ads.
Marital Fibulations
We all want honesty in our marriages.
But maybe not too much. Not… TOTAL
I’d rather hear “No, those jeans do not make your butt look fat.”
And now that I have been married a long time, I have recognized a whole bunch of fibs that married people tell each other.
I would have to say that the Number One Marital Fib is:
“Just a second.”
There are several variations of “Just a second.” Like, “I’m almost ready.” Or “I’ll just take a quick shower.”
My husband’s personalized variation on “Just a second” is: “I’ll be off the phone in a minute.” Mine is: “One more chapter and I’ll come to bed.”
And there are so many more marital fibs – employed on an almost daily basis.
Like:
“I cleaned up the last time the cat threw up. It’s your turn.”
“Yes, I DID tell you that your mother called.”
“I paid that on time. The bank must have screwed up.”
“The milk is sour?”
“I loved the shirt that you gave me, but it didn’t fit.”
“The cat just farted.”
“I didn’t realize that I left it on empty.”
“No, it’s not new. I’ve had it a while.” (Free advice: This is true if you put something new in a drawer for a few weeks before you wear it.)
And tonight I just experienced another variation on the “just a second” theme – one that my mother knew all too well:
“I’ll help you with those dishes – but I need to go to the bathroom first.”
My mother had a name for that particular phenomenon.
Dishpan Diarrhea.
The Patron Saint of Nonbelievers
I used to describe myself, as “Spiritual, but not religious.”
That sounded so nice, but it really had no meaning. I wasn’t a worshipper of spirits or a believer in any other-worldly things. I guess that, loosely translated, it meant that I was a moral person, because I knew that I was happier good than guilty.
But as much as I am not very religious (meaning not at all), my mother-in-law was. Lola had little prayers in her shaky handwriting taped all around her house. I especially liked the one taped by the toaster. I love toast, and certainly that toaster made excellent toast.
She died ten years ago, at aged 83. She needed surgery to which she would not consent.
“I’m not afraid of dying,” she told me a few months before she passed away, when I was once again trying to encourage her to have her throat repaired.
“That’s good,” I said. “Because we are all going to die. I just don’t understand why you want to rush it, when you can be with us a little longer, and you can be just as unafraid of death in a few years.”
But there was no changing Lola’s mind. She was stubborn and controlling and believed in herself as much as she believed in God. I remember years before, when her new neighbors planted a shrub right on the property line.
“Don’t worry,” Lola said. “I am just going to wait and see if I like it. And if I don’t… well, you know, it just… won’t take.” And she winked at me. That poor shrub died before the year was out.
My mother-in-law liked me well enough. I think what she liked most about me was that I was married to the person she liked best. She once served us homemade pierogi for lunch – one for me, six for my husband.
I was raised a Catholic. And though I was quite pious as a child – I used to love to say the rosary – it didn’t stick as I became an adult. But as agnostic as I was, I still have the urge to pray. It’s what you do when you want something – right?
Prayer didn’t really work so hot for me, though, and I couldn’t really blame God for not paying attention to me, since I hadn’t paid much attention to Him in many years. But sometimes I still want something. Since my mother-in-law prayed all the time, I figure she had me covered.
And after she died, I thought perhaps she might have even more pull than before.
The first time I tried her, it was for something common. Pain relief.
I was undergoing some difficult oral surgery. Nothing hurts quite so much as dental pain. I couldn’t focus – the pain was so intense. “Please, Lola,” I prayed to my husband’s mother in heaven – who I figured was ordering God around. “I need this pain to go away.” And to my surprise, it did. Half an hour later, the pain was gone. Completely.
Wow, that was weird; but in a good way, I thought.
Shortly after that, my husband and I threw a big party. We had built our beautiful house, which was finally finished, and wanted to celebrate. We pulled out our wedding invitation list, and combined it with our Christmas card list, and added in all the subcontractors who worked on the house too. And planned a huge picnic. We called a caterer. We made our own little miniature golf course.
And it poured. It rained so hard that morning the windows steamed up and the yard added a few water hazards to the golf course. And the caterer called to tell us to come pick up the food. Food for 75.
So I prayed to Lola. “We have so many people coming and so much food. Please stop this rain.”
And she did. Our guests told us that they drove to our house in a complete deluge – until they got to our road.
I knew I had stumbled onto an amazing secret weapon.
I’ve been careful over the years though. I don’t want Lola to think I am pushy or demanding; she may decide to go help someone who doesn’t nag. So I only ask for important things and things that are out of my control. I figure if I can accomplish something on my own, I’d better not call in a prayer. But a sick relative, a friend who needs a job – Lola hasn’t yet let me down.
But this week I asked for something a bit more trivial. I went shopping after dinner on July 3rd. I tried on dozens of summer-y outfits, as the weather had heated up, and my clothes run towards cardigans and skinny jeans (as you know). I had great luck, and found quite a few terrific bargains.
And when I got home I had only one earring. One favorite earring. My husband bought these earrings for me for Christmas – antique medallion earrings with dark sapphire stones.
I love them. I wear them at least once a week. They cost more than five times what all those new summer clothes cost. What a horrible trade-off.
The store was already closed. The next day was the Fourth of July.
I checked the internet. The store was going to be open on the Fourth.
I went to bed feeling sad and sick. On top of the loss of a precious gift, now I would have to return all those damn clothes, because every time I wore them, I would be reminded.
I prayed to Lola. I knew this wasn’t an emergency, and it was my own fault that I lost the earring. So I offered a trade-off. A little something that Lola might want in return.
The next morning I called the store before they opened, and the manager answered. No, they hadn’t found any earring. I told her I would come down anyway. My husband drove me there, and we searched the parking lot. Nothing.
We banged on the door about ten minutes before they were due to open, and the manager let me in. “We’re cleaning now,” she said, “but we haven’t found anything.”
“Please let me check the dressing room,” I said – already running past her.
And there it was. Right there. On the floor of the cubby I had used.
“I found it! I found it!” I showed the manager. I showed my husband. I showed the guy with the big broom.
And the manager shook her head. They had already cleaned the dressing room. It hadn’t been there.
That Lola is really good.
But of course, this Sunday I had to live up to my end of the bargain.
I went to church. I made my husband come with me.
“I promised your mother,” I said.
And did I wear those very special miraculous earrings to church?
No.
The goddamn ungrateful bastards slept in.
notquiteold 