Who Do You Gotta Know to Get a Snack Around Here?

There are lemon bars in the work lunchroom, leftovers from yesterday’s Birthday Celebration and Monthly Placation.

We’re a cared-for little group, those of us at Acme Grommets, Gravel and Industry (a world-wide Octopi).  In the fall, there are apples every Wednesday.  Once a month there are “treats”.  And almost quarterly someone from the mailroom runs up and down the halls shouting “There are leftovers in the breakroom!  Leftovers in the breakroom!” whereupon we lurch from our desks and stampede toward free food. 

You have to be fast.  Some of the departments here are frighteningly young but many are on the plump side.  Disturbed middle-aged desk monkeys such as myself use guile and experience to edge them out.  I find that cutting through the bathroom and throwing elbows when necessary to be a winning strategy.

Get away from that stale donut, you pup!

I’ve been working for an uncomfortably long time.  I’ve gone from electric typewriters and, so help me, carbon paper, to a docked laptop that I can take home with me, should the urge to work come over me whilst cooking dinner.  I’ve seen dress codes move from panty hose and enclosed-toed shoes to bare legs and flip flops.  I’ve seen numerous people changing their pants in the obliviousness of their open-doored offices. 

I once knew a woman who kept a tiny TV hidden at her desk and watched her “shows” during her lunch break in the bathroom. 

The bathroom.

I said all that to say this:  There are lemon bars in the lunchroom.  To my similarly experienced, randomly hungry coworkers, we will meet in the bathroom immediately. 

As in all things, get it while you can.

What, These Old Things?

I live a rich life.

Take, for example, my queen-sized mattress and box spring.

In fact, you may actually take them, as they are now balanced against the garage.

“What’s this?”

Kurt grins.  “You have to open it.”

I tear at the suspiciously flat gift.  Inside is a bright blue folder.  I grin back.  “You got me homework?” 

Inside the folder, however, are two sheets of paper.   “Please take,” says the first.  “Queen-sized mattress.”  “Please take,” says the second.  “Queen-sized box spring.”

I look from the sheets to him, back to the sheets, back to him.  I narrow my eyes.  “Heeeey, what’s the big deal?”

“You need a new bed,” he says.

And so over the holiday break, we went mattress shopping.  Frankly, if there is anything nicer than a brand new bed, I don’t think my heart could take it.

The old ones have leaned against the couch in my library since then, a stately addition to a room chockfull of books, seating, and, here and there, the forgotten and crumpled paper airplanes from a Christmas party run amok.   They leaned until yesterday, that is, when Kurt helped me move them into the alley, signs attached, to await Tuesday morning’s garbage men.

The library seems so much bigger now.

Tuesday after work, however, I get a text from Willie – my ex and, oddly enough, next-door neighbor.  “Recycling is next week.  Did they take your mattresses?”

I pull on my boots, hat, scarf, mittens, and coat, trudge back to the alley.

And there they are, looking for all the world like things that will, during the course of the week, fall into the paths of cars, causing neighbors to look askance in my direction, perhaps pass judgment on my housekeeping abilities.

I contact Sally, currently renting my garage, to explain the situation.  Can I move them inside, away from prying eyes and passing cars?  Can I leave them there until next Monday night?

Of course, she says.

I pull them into the garage one at a time, straining, heaving.  When did they stop putting handles on mattresses?  I shake a trembling fist in the direction of Big Mattress, no doubt in cahoots with Big Chiro.

Back in the house, I remove the many layers of clothing required to keep my flesh from freezing and throw myself on the couch.

But it won’t leave me be.  It’s not right, is it?  She rents the garage.  It’s her garage.  What if both cars won’t fit now?

Dagnabit.

Sighing, I re-dress, clomp back out, where I pull the heavy, ridiculous things outside once again.  Sweating, grunting in the demure manner of a woman at the end of a day, and, possibly, a rope of some kind, I maneuver them against the garage, lawn-side this time, where they lean, ice cold and, somehow, triumphant.

It is the dead of winter.  I have mattresses in my backyard, pressed against a cinder block garage.

Until Tuesday.

Who has more fun, huh? 

A Two for One Deal

He’s reaching for the glove box as we pull up to the red light. 

He pulls the coupons from his breast pocket.

“What are you doing?”

He glances from the coupons to the light to the paper-clipped offers he’s taken from the glove box.

“Organizing,” he says.

“Hmm,” I say.

“What?” he says, turning bright blue eyes at me.  “A man’s got to organize.”

I keep my own counsel.

He looks up at the light again.  “No, really,” he says.  “Sitting at a red light is an excellent opportunity to go through your coupons.”

“Maybe for you to go through your coupons,” I say.  “I like to do mine while showering.”

He has the sense to grin.  “Like this one,” he says.  He checks his rear view mirror, then pulls a small piece of paper from the pile  “You see this?  Because we went through the paper this morning, I know this is on sale, limit of ten.  I’m going to get ten at the discounted price, but the coupon I have says buy one, get the second for free.”  He smiles.  “I’ll be swimming in Dr Pepper.”  He leans over, takes my hand.  “Don’t you want to be swimming in Dr Pepper, Pearl?”

I turn to look out the window, mostly to hide my amusement.  “You buys you ten, you gets you eleven.”

He squeezes my hand quickly as the light changes, then puts both hands on the wheel.  We pull ahead.  

He is smiling into traffic.  “Pearl,” he says quietly.

“Kurt,” I say.

Honey, That’s What the Panty is For

My mother worked for Haines for years. 

And as I’m sure you’re aware, nothing beats a great pair of L’Eggs.

I grew up with a plethora of free pantyhose.  Not that this mattered to me, of course.  Pantyhose?  Who wore those, anyway?  Well, I do.  Now.  But then?  You might as well have offered me unlimited prune juice.

My mother is the knower of all things hose-related.  How to put them on without twisting one leg into a tourniquet (the toe is the key), how to pull them up over the ribs to avoid waist-line-dig, how to wash them and clean your nails at the same time...

It is spring again, and we are sitting around the table.  The sliding glass door leading out to the deck is open.  Too early for bugs, too late for frostbite, the air comes into the room like a welcomed visitor, someone coming in with coffee cake or a funny friend.

My mother has given one of her nieces, a teenager several years older than me, several pair of nylons.  Surprisingly, she is happy about this.

“You know how to put these on correctly, right?”

Teresa nods.  “My mom told me.”

My mother nods, approving. 

Teresa looks thoughtful.  “Aunt Midge, can I ask you something?”

My mother looks at her, cocks her head to one side.  I’m listening.

Teresa blushes softly.  “Do you wear underwear under nylons?”

My mother smiles.  She loves these questions.  “They used to just be stockings, you know.  You had to wear garters to hold them up.  But now they’re pantyhose, have a cotton crotch and everything.  So no, you don’t have to wear underwear.  That’s what the panty in the hose is for.” 

Teresa looks both incredulous and embarrassed. 

My mother leans across the table, puts her hand over her niece’s.

“Honey,” she says, “you don’t want to wear too many layers down there.”  She leans back, satisfied with her answer.

She rises, heads toward the fridge for the cheese tray.  “Yep,” she says, over her shoulder.  “You gotta let that stuff breathe.”

Minneapolis, Late Saturday Night

The bus has taken on a warm, smoky glow.

“My name is Louis,” the bus driver had said.  “Drunk women call me Louie.  And I don’t mind at all.

“There’s only one rule tonight, and that’s that there is no rule.  This is a party bus, a drinking, dancing, smoking bus.  Dance, laugh, shout.  You need cigs?  I’ll stop.  You need something at a convenience store?  I’ll stop.  Keep all your lovely bits inside the bus, though, let’s not attract more attention than a black and pink bus already does.  Now let’s have a good time!”

This is not, of course, the trusty #17.  This is not a commute.

This is an adventure. 

It’s Erin’s bachelorette party.  Home from Arizona and full of the love that a two-year absence and a well-run pub crawl can spur, the sun has gone down, the music has been turned up.

“I THOUGHT I SPOTTED AN OLD HIPPIE,” LouAnn shouts.  We have similar dance moves – Soul Train comes to mind – and we high-five.

“I GOT ABOUT SEVEN INCHES CUT OFF ABOUT A MONTH AGO,” Megan yells.  “YOU DON’T THINK IT LOOKS CHOPPY?”

“I’M SECOND-HAND SMOKING OVER HERE, MAN,” shouts Kim.  “I TELL YOU WHAT – I’M GONNA GO IN THE NEXT BAR, EAT A LOAF OF BREAD AND ME AND MY GLUTEN ALLERGY ARE GONNA CLEAR THIS WHOLE BUS.  YOU FEEL ME?  YOU’RE JUST ONE SLICE OF BREAD AWAY FROM THE GASSY EXPERIENCE OF A LIFETIME.”

The black and pink bus slides majestically down the cobblestoned roads to the river, down by the Grain Belt sign, down by where the 35W bridge collapsed. 

Diana hands me a beer. 

“HISTORIC MINNEAPOLIS.”

I nod, move across the aisle from one side of the bus to the other to sit next to her.  “Can I just tell you that I’m pretty drunk right now?”

“You could tell me,” she says, “but I wouldn’t beli - hic! – I wouldn’t beli – hic! – I would be disinclined to have faith in your assumption.”

We grin at each other.  “Nicely done,” I say. 

She shrugs.  “English is my native language.”

We twist in our seats, look out the windows to the brick, to the river, to the stark beauty of the leafless trees against the starlit skies.

Behind us, music I don’t recognize throbs, bass-heavy.  Beautiful women dance in the aisle, shouting encouragement and jokes.  Outside, Minneapolis moves silently from winter to spring.

Diana wraps her arms around me, and I rest my head on her shoulder.

“We are the luckiest women in the world,” she says. 

I nod.  “I am inclined,” I say, “to have faith in your assumption.”

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.  

That Reminds Me: Pick Up Chicken Wings for Dinner

Wait long enough, and there she is.  You see that?  Twelve o’clock, as my dad likes to say, right there in front of you.  It’s 28 degrees outside – four degrees cooler than required to, say, generate your own, artisanal ice – and she’s got short sleeves.

At this time of year, you know, you don’t see many short sleeves on the bus. 

And that’s because they are under layers upon layers of rich, satisfying fabric.

Fabric!  Nature’s way of saying, You, over there!  I shall award your foresight in covering yourself with one more day of life.

She boards the bus, tight jeans, leather boots, a short-sleeved tee and a fashionably slouch-y wool cap.  Practically embryonic with youth, her pink face flush with color – perhaps fever related – she and a friend search for a seat while those of us of a more practical bent view her with hooded, content eyes.

We are warm, and she is not.

Take that, adorably shivering female.

Somewhere in my head, of course, in a corner I reserve for random, spiteful thoughts, I am hoping that the bus will break down and that, partially frozen and struggling toward an awaiting bus blocks and blocks away – perhaps to be warmed and presented with complimentary firefighters and squirming, squealing puppies – she will fall, her smooth-soled footwear failing her, to come up dripping with salt-laden slush.  Tearfully, she will proclaim, “I’ve been so foolish!  I will never, ever dress without regard to weather conditions again!”

You know.  Like I did. 

Every day, of course, I am proven wrong in one form or another, and today is yet another example of this winning streak.  Tiny, frozen female does not actually freeze, and there are no complimentary firefighters waiting at the end of the line offering to throw me over a thick, uniformed shoulder.

Perhaps I am riding the wrong bus?