A Speckled Trout

                                     
                                           ~What breaks quickly generally mends slowly~


On the first day of the job I left this spring, I was escorted to the third floor where I would be working by my then supervisor.  Immediately upon arriving on the landing, it was as if every sense in my body was screaming GET OUT. By the time I got to my desk I felt like crying.

It was bizarre and scary and telling, and since I’m not some new-age, hippie chick that dances by the light of the moon every night I shut that business down pronto.

The first month, however, was such a struggle that when friends and family asked, “Don’t you just love it?”, I would offer a weak smile and say, “I can’t say yet.  There’s so much to learn and it’s really different than anything I’ve done before.”  What was unsaid is that from the beginning it was the most difficult work environment I’d ever been in.  If I were smart I would have turned around that first day and said, “Sorry, HR.  You’re not going to believe this but The Universe just sent me quite the warning and I’m going to have to go.”

Responsible people, though, don’t get a job and then walk out on a feeling.  You stick it out and hope that the karma you’re picking up on is dead wrong.

While there was a conflict that tipped the scale for me that week, I really hadn’t planned on quitting on the day I gave my notice.  But I walked up to the third floor once again and wondered, “How many more days are you willing to be miserable?”  I clocked in, put my stuff away, got a cup of coffee and went into my new supervisor’s office to give my notice.  We both cried because we had a mutual adoration society going and my leaving was going to break that up.

There were many people there that I adored and leaving those friendships was incredibly hard, but I felt that I was spiraling down so fast that it was scaring me.  There were attempts in the following week to talk me out of my decision but it was to no avail.  I did my best not to panic about losing a second paycheck around here but that was on the outside.  The inside was swirling and nauseous and checking multiple job sites over and over waiting to pounce on the right opportunity.

Six weeks later I broke my foot.

I went to two interviews after that wearing an orthopedic boot.  Was that why I didn’t get the job? Did they think my broken foot would never mend and they’d be stuck with a hobbling employee that is always late because she has to go to the doctor again?  For the third interview I stuffed my swollen foot into a regular shoe and had my daughter drop me off outside the building so I wouldn’t have to limp from a parking garage.  I didn’t get that one either.

Three “thanks but no thanks” emails in less than a week could make even the most optimistic job seeker a little shaky in their confidence.  I started out shaky.

When I first quit my job, my neighbor who works for the school district said, “Oh good.  Don’t get anything until August so we can hang out this summer.”

“August?  Oh no, I’ll have something before that,” I said.  Or so I thought.

It seems like destiny to me that I broke my foot.  The thought of repairing my damaged emotions after two tough years was not what I was planning to do this summer.  I was looking to dive right back into the work pool but was instead forced to prop my foot up with an ice pack and deal with my feelings.  Some days that felt like being forced to sit in the cafeteria with the popular cheerleader in high school that was dating the boy who dumped me.

When another neighbor who is a nurse asked me how my foot was doing I told her that it hurt most of the time, that I couldn’t seem to get anything done and that at some point during the day I would usually fall asleep. “Well, that’s because you’re in pain,” she said, “and pain is exhausting.”

It was as if my world cracked open and it was finally okay for me to take the time to take care of me.

Last week I saw my hairstylist and told her my summer saga of a broken bone, torn ligaments and dwindling job opportunities.  Then I showed her the picture my niece drew of the main character for the children’s book we’ve been conspiring to do together for more than a year.

She stared at the drawing and said, “Oh, she’s adorable.  Her hair!  I think I might already love her.”  Then she looked at me and said, “You know that you’re not getting the jobs because that isn’t what you’re supposed to be doing now?  That writing her story is the job you’re supposed to have?”

I do know that. 

In my still, quiet summer I have discovered that landing the next job was never part of the plan.  It was learning how to listen.

Over the the past few years Maggie and I have taken it upon ourselves to look for suitable candidates to date our Will.  He never asked us to do this (and would roll his eyes when we brought it up) but we decided that since we’ve both had success in the Cute Husband Department we were the perfect choice to help him out.

Both of us narrowed in our man.

Last year when I was going to the dentist weekly for a rogue tooth, I got to know the dental assistant. Besides being good at his job he was very cute and very funny.  He could talk about anything, but what sealed the deal for me was his advice on hair products to control frizz during the humid summer months.  I had met a soul mate.

Besides that, he wore a scarf fashionably tied around his neck with his blue scrubs.  I’m going to repeat that.  He wore a scarf tied fashionably around his neck with his blue scrubs.

After Maggie started going to the same dentist, our conversations always turned to Dan.  How fun he was, how much we liked him, how perfect he would be for Will.

“We need to work on this,” I said to Maggie, “and since I’m the one that’s there all the time it’s up to me.  I’ll get the scoop on him, figure out how he and Will can meet and then let love do its magic.” We discussed our strategy and how we could find out if he was attached.  “There’s no way around it,” I said.  “I’ll just have to come out and ask.”

So on one of my weekly visits I said to the dentist, “I need to talk to you about something.  Is Dan dating anyone because Maggie and I were talking and………..”

The dentist’s face fell as she put her hand on my arm and whispered, “I’m so, so sorry. That’s not going to work.  Dan is gay.”

I burst out laughing.  “Oh geez, I knew that with the scarf and all but I didn’t mean for Maggie. I meant for my son.”

“DANNNNNNN!!!” She yelled.  “Get in here.  We’ve got an opportunity for you.”

Dan came running in.  The other dental assistant came in.  The hygienist peeked around the corner. “Do your thing,” the dentist said to me as the crowd gathered around my recliner.  I presented my case my son and frantically tried to pull up a picture on Facebook.  They all leaned in to get a good look.

“We don’t always get good reception in here,” the dentist said and disappoint hung as lifeless in the air as a shot of Novocain.

“I’ll friend him,” Dan said.  “Tell him who I am so he knows and then we’ll see.  I can’t believe I don’t know him already.  I think I’ve dated every gay guy in Kansas City.”

The fact that he got around a lot was a little concerning but I ignored that and called Maggie with the deets.  “It’s in the works and before you know it Dan will be eating Sunday dinner with us. Maybe he can show us how he ties his scarf in that cool knot?!”

“I know, Mom.  Will’s going to thank us for this one,” Maggie said.

Before long they did end up meeting through a mutual friend.  In fact, Will met a bunch of new people all of a sudden but, alas, there was not even the slightest spark of a love connection.  “He’s not my type,” was all he said.

“Not your type?!!”  What do you mean?  He’s cute, he’s funny, he’s fashionable,” Maggie and I yelled. Will wouldn’t budge.  He moved on rather quickly from this plan of ours but we were having trouble doing the same.

I hadn’t seen Dan in over a year until I went in for a cleaning last month.  He poked his head in the room and said.  “Hey Kathleen, how’s it going?  Haven’t seen you in awhile.  Is Will doing okay?”

We got caught up on everything and I was a little sad it didn’t work out with Will.  He would have been a fine addition to the family roster.

The original cute son-in-law started going to the same dentist recently.  “Did you meet Dan?  Isn’t he so good-looking and fun?” Maggie asked.

“I can’t believe you and your mom ever thought he was a good match for Will.  Two minutes in and I knew he wasn’t the kind of guy Will would go for.  That was a bad idea you two had from the start.”

“What???  Of course it could have worked.”

“Nope.  Not Will’s type.  You guys don’t know what you’re doing.”

Will did meet someone recently, and what may be the biggest shock of all, Maggie and I had nothing to do with it. We don’t know how he did it without our guidance but he did, and we all like this cute, nice guy who makes Will so happy.

But what are we to do with our time now that our matchmaking skills are not needed?

I’m so glad I asked.

We think it’s time to teach the straight men around here how to accessorize.

On a Saturday morning when my mom and sister were in town, Mom was standing at the dining room table reading the newspaper and casually said, “A chipmunk just came in the house.” Just as calm as she could be as if she was saying, “There’s still some more coffee in the pot if you want another cup.”

Me, not being all calm-like shrieked, “A CHIPMUNK?  WHAT?  IN THIS HOUSE? RIGHT NOW? DID ONE OF THE CATS BRING IT IN?  WHERE DID IT GO?”

“I think it ran into the kitchen,” Mom said as she perused the Macy’s ad.

I looked at Ann.  “For reals,” I said nodding in Mom’s direction, suggesting that maybe now is the time we should look into that room at Shady Acres before she gets bad.  Ann shrugged.

“That can’t be, Mom,” I said.  “We’ve never had a chipmunk in the house.”

“All I know,” Mom said turning the page, “is that something with a little head and tail ran in here.  Do you think we can go up to Macy’s later on?”

Why is she always so freaking calm?

It wasn’t long before the cat parked himself in front of the stove with a twitching tail.  Mom was right. There was an intruder in the house.

I told The Big Daddy who matched my mom’s calmness.  “Don’t worry about it.  The cats will get him sooner or later.”

“No.  No.  That’s not going to work for me.  I can’t have that thing in here.  You have to get it out.  Now.”

Undeterred by a foreign terrorist on the homeland soil and a damsel in distress, he went outside to putter in his garden.

I stayed out of the kitchen for as long as I could, and wouldn’t you know that as soon as I went in there Alvin poked his head out from under the dishwasher to give me a fright.

I called The Big Daddy back in for a kitchen conference.  “You have to do something before this thing gives me a heart attack!!  It needs to go.”

“Oh c’mon, you know this thing is more scared of you.”

“I highly doubt that,” I said.

“Where’s my pioneer woman?”

“Well, she’s in Oklahoma,” I said, “cooking and writing that blog that makes bank every month.  You’re stuck with me and I don’t want a chipmunk in the kitchen.”

He and Mallory, who happened to be unafraid or very hungry, conferred on a plan, got the squirrel trap out of the garage, wrapped it in a towel and put some popcorn in the trap.

We waited.

There were a couple of things wrong with this plan.  Problem #1: The squirrel trap was too big and the chipmunk was too small to set it off so he just darted in and out snacking on some Smart Pop for lunch.  Problem #2: The hubs used a brand new bathroom towel.  “Really, Mark?  Two dozen crappy towels in this house and you have to use the one we’ve owned for a week?”

“You wanted a trapped chipmunk.  Am I right?”

“Righty roo bounty hunter.”

We scattered for the day – my sister and her kids to the shopping district, Mark hunched over a computer and Mom and I to Macy’s.  The chipmunk had free rein of the kitchen (my kitchen) and a darkened, comfy restaurant to enjoy his popcorn.

A few hours later we gathered together for dinner where I was forced to be in the kitchen.  I got my brave on and my stomping boots.  With that many people in there I was sure that Alvin would mind his own beeswax under the dishwasher and he did. We ate and left to watch a soccer match.

My sister and her carload were the first to arrive home that night and Wrigley (the Yorkie who’s a terrified chicken on four legs) was hiding in his kennel.  He was sporting his usual resting face grimace that said “something’s not right around here you guys.”  Since he’s worn that grimace from the day he came to this house last fall we don’t pay much attention.  This time, though, his grimace and his eyes kept darting from my sister to the kitchen. Over and over.  He’d witnessed something – something disturbing and he needed Ann to know about it.

Exhausted from all the days activities and wildlife sightings, we all went to bed with my sister camping on the couch. When Mal came home she sat on the couch talking to Ann when the cat started going crazy. They jumped up on the coffee table and screamed for Mark.  “THE CHIPMUNK!!!  THE CAT HAS THE CHIPMUNK!!!!”

I poked my sleeping husband and yelled at him to get downstairs before there was blood and chipmunk parts everywhere. Turns out the cat had a june bug.  It also turns out that, like me, none of the other women in the family share Mom’s state of calm.

Mom, Ann and her kids left early the next morning without a chipmunk sighting.  Apparently even rodents like to sleep in on the Sabbath.  I managed to stay out of the kitchen for a good part of the day (a most excellent weight loss strategy) until I couldn’t go any longer without some food.  And what did I get for my absence?  I got a chipmunk that ran right in front of my feet.

No longer willing to wait for our two lazy cats to take care of business, I sent Mark to the hardware store for a chipmunk trap.  It wasn’t long before we got our man.

“Take him across the street,” I said to Mark, “and make him cross a lot of traffic to get back here.”

“I’m not going to make the little fellow do that,” Mark said cooching-cooing Alvin in his trap.  He released him into the backyard where the chipmunk fam quickly gathered to hear about the meal plan inside.

From the safety of his kennel, Wrigley observed every second of this transpire with his darting, watchful eyes. Still grimacing and shaking in his furry boots, it was as if he wanted to say, “You guys wouldn’t believe the shit that goes down around here when you walk out the door.”

Come to Papa

I was born in the heyday of the Barbie doll.  She was ten years old when I was twelve, and though she was far more mature looking than I was we did in fact grow up together.

She was so beautiful with her perfectly coifed hair, her fashionable outfits and her I-mean-business-but-I-don’t-really-work-at-anything-but-me stilettos.  Who wouldn’t love that kind of beauty?

Well, me, for one.  With my sensible Catholic school shoes to go with my itchy plaid uniform, gigantic white underpants, a generously freckled face and flat chest I had a hard time relating to Barbie. Even at that young age I knew when someone was out of my league and Barbie most certainly was.

Thankfully her best friend, Midge, came to the rescue a few years later.  Midge with her practical bob and freckles sprinkled across her nose was the answer for this average looking little girl.  I was crazy about Midge.  She dated Allan, not that frat boy, Ken, with his stupid sweater tied around his neck. What kind of guy did that?  We lived in Chicago.  Either you wore a sweater ten months of the year or you didn’t.  But, Allan, in my dreamy dreams was going to college to get smarter and improve on his overall decency and devotion to Midge. Ken on the other hand was going to drink and hit on all the coeds even though everyone knew that he and Barbie were a “thing.”

Midge was my girl.

A neighbor who was a seamstress started making doll clothes for Barbie and Midge and my mom was a frequent customer.  She’d put in an order and a week later Evelyn would call and tell her the tiny, perfectly sewn clothes were ready.  Mom would send my sister, Jean, and I over with some money wadded in our fists to pay her and add to our vinyl Barbie and Midge suitcases.  If Evelyn’s husband was home he’d open the door and say “Come quick, Evelyn!!! It’s the Sipanski sisters.”  Seeing as how we were German and Irish I didn’t understand why he always called us by a Polish name but he thought it was funny.

A few years ago when Mom was still in her old neighborhood we got to talking about Evelyn and Ed. “They’re still in the same house,” she said.  Evelyn had moved from Barbie clothes to quilts and had won some awards for her pieces.

“I’d love to see them,” I said to my mom and so she called Evelyn to see if I could come over.  Later that day when I rang the bell Ed answered the door and said, “Evelyn!!!  You’re not going to believe this.  We’ve got a Sipanski sister at the door.  Whatever you’re selling we’re not interested,” he said and slammed the door in my face.  Seconds later he opened it laughing, grabbed me by the hand and said, “Get in here and tell me everything you’ve been doing the last forty years.”

Last week I ran into a Midge doll at an estate sale and all those memories came flooding back.  At $65.00 she was more than I wanted to spend for a bit of nostalgia, but like Ed and Evelyn it was a sweet reconnection with a favorite old friend.

On that blistering hot day the humidity had made her hair too big, her bangs too short and a bit of bloating seemed to make getting the zipper up on her jeans impossible.

Midge was still my girl.

For the last couple of months my little circle of friends has been swirling in turmoil.  One friend who had an ailing mother emailed me that things had gone suddenly bad for her and she was headed out of town to be by her Mom’s side.  We texted back and forth many times a day and one afternoon on the way to the hospital she called me.  “I need to laugh,” she said,”and you’re the girl to do it.”  We did laugh (over what I can’t even remember) until she arrived at the hospital where things got real just by pulling into the parking lot.  A few days later her mother passed away.

Many years ago I had to have out-patient surgery for an ovarian cyst.  If you’ve ever had one or know of someone who has, they will tell you that when one of those plants itself in your lady parts you are about to embark on one painful ride.

I was unaware I had a cyst until it was discovered during a routine yearly exam, and between that time, the testing and the appointment with the doctor to get it scheduled for removal, it burst (which is the painful part).  This is what the doctor told Mark when he finished the surgery and came out to talk to him. What was left was removed, the blood was cleaned out and I was sent home later that day to recuperate.

Recuperating wasn’t so easy as we had three small kids and no family here to help out so Mark was called upon to do a lot.

We also had a dog who was a runner and had a habit of bolting out the front door if the kids didn’t close it all the way when they were going to play down the street.  This usually resulted in both of us screaming at the dog, the kids, and the damn door that never closed all the way.

The day after my surgery Henry saw his opportunity for freedom and made a dash.  I screamed, “MAAAAAAARK!!!! THE DOG!!!  GET HIM!!!!”

Mark bolted out the door, flew over the hedge and missed the dog who took off running for the neighborhood kids who would chase him until they all ran out of steam.

Limping into the house Mark grimaced and said, “I almost had him but I smashed my toe on the ground and he got away.”  He managed to make his way to the freezer for some ice and his job of nursing me came to a screeching halt. He had a big toe to nurse.

The next day he and his big toe went to work where one of his coworkers said, “You jammed it.  That happens all the time to professional athletes.  It’s called turf toe.  Go see one of the docs and they’ll yank on it and unjam it.”

That night Mark came home and told me of his professional sports injury.  “Are you going to have somebody look at it?” I asked.  “Nah,” he said.  “That sounds too painful.  It’ll probably be fine soon.”

A few days later my mom came to town.  I was on the mend and her and I went grocery shopping. Mark hobbled to the car to help bring the bags in and Mom said, “Oh for God’s sake, you’d have thought he was the one that had surgery.”  This was a true statement as the injury to his toe would take far longer to heal than surgically sucking a cyst out of me.

Four months later I had to have surgery again, this time more involved and with a longer recovery, and so I convened a meeting with the hubs to clearly communicate my raging, homicidal thoughts. “This is all about me this time. I don’t care if you jam your toe or have a bone sticking out of your forehead. I get all of the sympathy because this time I’m getting stuff removed and stitches and I am not going to share that for some made-up sports injury.”

“Okay,” he said.  “But it’s not made up.  Turf toe is very, very real.  I don’t know if you remember me telling you that professional athletes get it and if you ever experienced it you would know how extremely painful it is.”

And like my mom I said, “Oh for God’s sake.”

Two weeks ago when I broke my foot Mark had a bit of nostalgia sweep over him as we sat in the emergency room. “Any time you injure your foot it’s painful, Kath.  Real painful.  Do you remember that time I got turf toe?  It’s something professional athletes get.”

“Isn’t there some kind of statute of limitations for the retelling of a stupid toe injury?” I asked.

There is not.

Last week my mom and sister and her kids came to our little part of Oz for a short visit.  I was a busy beaver spiffing the joint up for their arrival.  While the inside was in pretty good shape, the screened-in porch was not.  Between the buckets of pollen that have fallen from above all spring followed by buckets of rain, everything out there was a green, grimy mess – which tends to happen when you insist that the inside should marry the outside.  I got my trusty Clorox spray and a rag and went to town.

For about five minutes.

As I stood on the threshold of the kitchen door wiping the ledge on the porch, I noticed something that needed to be put away STAT and headed that way.  Whatever THAT was I cannot remember, and in my hurry to get to it I might have considered looking where I was about to step.  I put my dainty, little left foot down and shoved my clodhopper right foot through the handle of a basket that was on the ground just to the right of me. 

I went flying.  Or staggering-half-barreling-epic falling to the ground.

In my tumble I smashed my foot on the concrete floor which ummmmm, hurt like a mother.  Then I felt like throwing up.

Mal heard the commotion and came out.  I was having trouble saying much of anything with the foot pain and overall barfiness but I did manage to ask her to get me an ice pack.  I hobbled to a chair and put my banged up foot up on another chair and let the ice do its thing for awhile.  When I got up I put my weight on it and was mildly successful.  I heeled it to the ibuprofen bottle.

Maggie and I had already made plans to go to Target and Homegoods which was essential to my goal of creating the perfect family entertaining ambiance.  I needed a battery operated pillar candle or everyone was going to be completely miserable during their visit.  I found my cushioniest flip flops, slipped in one fat foot and one normal sized foot and got in her car.  “Are you sure about this, Mom?  You’re limping pretty bad.”

No, I wasn’t at all sure but I have always thought if you take your mind off your troubles you’ll feel better which explained the immediate need to get to Target.

I gimped myself through both stores with no luck in finding the battery operated pillar candle in the cool color I envisioned and thought I so desperately needed.  I covered a lot of square footage with that bum foot and had nothing to show for it except some outdoor lights for the patio that I was smart enough to realize weren’t going to get hung for awhile.  Or probably ever.

Mark came home and repeated what his daughter had already said, “You’re limping pretty bad.  You did a number on that foot, honey.”

By the next morning I was no longer limping pretty bad because I couldn’t put any weight on it at all and so we went to the emergency room.  I was reminded that a real ER has nothing in common with what is depicted on t.v. or in movies. There is absolutely no urgency – even for the guy who was sweating and clutching his chest while his wife pleaded twice for someone to look at him immediately.  “I see you,” the registration clerk said as if she was playing peek-a-boo with a toddler rather than a middle-aged guy with chest pains who already had a pacemaker.  “Give me just one more minute.”

“That one behind the desk is a cog in the wheel,” Mark said icily.  “You know what a cog does?  It f**** everything up.”

I nodded and said, “If I’m like that call an ambulance even if I say not to.   I heard that you get seen faster if you come by ambulance.”

“You’d bitch about the copay on an ambulance,” Mark said back and he was right.  I’d be at the mercy of Cog Lady which sent a shudder down my spine.

Just then I was called back and hopped the length of a football field to get to the exam room.  “I should have gotten you a wheelchair,” the nurse said sympathetically.  “Yes, that would have been helpful,” I said as I did a last hop onto the bed.  The doctor had the good sense not to touch my foot and was pretty sure it was a bad sprain.  “Does it hurt to walk on it,” he asked.  “Well,” I said nodding to the nurse, “she about did me in.”  They chuckled and offered me a Vicodin.  I declined.

We waited for the xray machine to show up.

“Mark, I can’t do crutches,” I whined in the meantime.  “Everyone who’s ever had them says they suck.  If I can get by with Das Boot I’d be so happy.”

We cracked up at my funny and his favorite movie about a German submarine that made me claustrophobic just watching it.  We watched the minutes tick by and twice somebody came in and said we could turn the t.v. on.  I couldn’t figure out what sort of t.v. one watches in the ER and instead I listened in on what the staff was ordering for lunch.

Eventually I got my xray and it confirmed that I did break a bone.  I also hyper-extended my toes when I fell and had some messed up ligaments.  “We’ll put you in a boot,” the doctor said and I about jumped with joy on my one good foot.  A Vicodin was offered.  I declined.  Someone came in for a fitting.  “What do you bet this foam thing gets billed to the insurance company for $800.00,” I joked to Mark.

But not really because it probably does.

When I stepped down I thought all my troubles would be over and my foot wouldn’t hurt a bit but that was not the case.  Mark went and got the car and I started the long, slow, painful trek to the pickup area, grateful that I relented and took a prescription for Vicodin.

Since then I’ve had to baby it some but have managed within the last week to go to an outlet mall, vintage market, pizza place, Panera Bread, the grocery store, another trip to Target and a soccer game.

What a trooper!

Or what a gigantic idiot for not staying off of it so it can heal!!

I won’t be able to tell until next week’s orthopedist appointment and follow-up xray, but on the agenda for tomorrow is a job interview.

Das Boot will be coming along.  My footwear is losing its charm in this summer heat and like the movie is making me feel a wee bit claustrophobic.  In the end, though, it may be very useful after all.

It’s hard to slam the door on a fat, overpriced padded shoe.

My what big handles you have.

Since I have been off work my intent has been to get things organized around here.  Cleaning cabinets and closets is a lot like infrastructure projects.  So not sexy, but eventually a crumbling disaster that needs to be addressed before someone gets hurt by an avalanche of comforters and pillow shams from every decorating phase.

I took a detour to paint both bathrooms but have tackled something organizational every week.  It helps that I am in a ruthless mood and more than willing to let things go.  A few months from now I may be cursing that ruthlessness but for now I am going to embrace it.

My first project was the upstairs linen closet.  I pulled every single thing out of there.  Based only on the barely used hair products and makeup that were in abundance, I clearly suffer from self-esteem issues.  Is there no limit to the lipsticks, moisturizers and anti-frizz creams that a girl needs to enhance their look and boost confidence?  Not in my world.

I tackled the ironing basket next where I found a denim shirt that makes me look thinnish that I wore once. How could I have lost track of something as magical as that?  A favorite white shirt that I haven’t been able to part with for years but that had a Minwax stain (colonial) on the sleeve that I never could get out. Two pillow forms from that week when I thought I’d go into the pillow making business.

The basement followed on the organizational agenda where I spent hours going through stacks of paper, stacks of scrapbooking supplies from when I was going to make a scrapbook for each kid but never did, and the remnants of a vintage business that was going to lead to my own retail store but never did.

I have made several trips to the thrift store to drop off stuffed garbage bags, filled shopping bags for shredding and pawned a few things off on my kids.

Today I went to the county hazardous waste disposal center after I filled the back of my car with the leftover paint that was going to get this house in a magazine some day but never did.  I didn’t have as much as the car ahead of me that took a good ten minutes to unload, but it was an excess of every fleeting idea I’ve had when it comes to my home decor.   Pints, quarts and gallons of rusted paint cans from the last twenty years.

That wasn’t even all of it.  There’s more in the garage that I didn’t get to because, after all, it’s the garage and that’s another day.  My basement now holds only the few paint options that are in the house currently. When I was starting the paint project on the bathrooms I made a run to the hardware store for ceiling paint.  I found two half-used cans in the midst of my paint purge.  Nothing like throwing away some more money when you’re not making any.

I got to talking with the kid that unloaded my car of my paint hoard and he asked if I knew about the paint program. “Why no I don’t,” I said.  “We go through the paint and find the good usable stuff and mix it together. White, gray or beige are the color options. You can buy it in our shop and unlike here you don’t need an appointment. It’s indoor/outdoor paint and a great deal.”

“Really?  So how much?”

“We sell it in five gallon containers for twenty five dollars.”

“That is awesome.  Wow!  Paint is so expensive and that’s such a great price.  I have been thinking about painting my fen…….”

I snapped out of it, came to and came home.

Sheesh.

Enough, girlfriend.  Enough.

The Big Daddy and I have been in the market for a new lawn mower.  Correction: He wasn’t until I convinced him that he was. 

It has rained almost every day this month – so much so that it feels like Seattle.  While this is great for the garden, it is not so great for lawn mowing if you have an old-school push mower.  The Big Daddy adopted this method a few years ago and would spend hours mowing.  A more generous person might think this is a quaint throwback to another era.  A wife thinks that a looney idea that has gone on too long is looney.

With all this rain and a very busy work schedule, my husband wasn’t getting the grass cut very often. If there’s anything I have plenty of these days it’s time and I don’t mind cutting the grass, but Mama wasn’t about to use a push mower for that business.  I spent my childhood picking up sticks in a huge yard before my dad mowed.  After the middle school years with my faux boyfriend, Bud, down the street watching me, I considered it child abuse.

I suggested to my hoosband that we get something that was a little more current for his Modern Lady Wife.  “No gas,” he said and so that’s how we found ourselves at Lowe’s on a Friday night looking at battery charged mowers.  Fortunately we weren’t there long when we got a text from the neighbors saying that they were on the patio at the bar and grill by the house and so we skedaddled from that nonsense for some nachos and beer.

The next morning I recalled seeing a Black & Decker mower on Craigslist a few days earlier and gave the number a try.  It was still available and the woman selling it would show it to us at the office park she was renting to store her stuff until she moved.  Hence the sale of a mower – she was no longer going to have a lawn to maintain.

We found the place and went in.  It looked like a sale at a very bad thrift store.  There was crap everywhere.  On tables, on the floor, in boxes.  The side rooms, the back room, the back back room.  We found the mower and it looked brand new.  She had everything that came with it and had the blade sharpened.

Oh Craig!! This is sweet and I don’t think she’s going to try and kill us!!  

“Take a look at everything,” she said.  “See if there’s anything else you want.”

I poked around.  There was an entire room that was baskets.  Not the vintage, sturdy kind but more of the cheap kind that came with cheesy silk flower arrangements.  “Oh there’s plenty of great baskets in there,” she said.  “Pick some out and we’ll talk price.”

While I was trying really hard to find something nice, Mark got on an exercise bike.  “Kath, look at this.  This would be great, don’t you think?”  Before I could answer the seller started talking price with Mark.  “Oh yes, that’s a very nice bike.  Unfortunately I have a condition that prevents me from sitting for long periods of time so I can’t use it.”

Please God do not allow her to explain this condition.

They talked money and then Mrs. Craigslist set her scope on me.  “Do you need landscaping lights?  A ceiling fan?  Motion sensor lights?  Still in the box.  I was going to put them outside the lab my husband and I own but never got around to it.

“Lab?  Do you have any old lab glass?  Cylinders, beakers, that kind of stuff?  I love that.”

“Not here but I could get you some from our lab.  I’ll give you a good price.”

“Okay.  I’d love to look at that,  My husband works in a lab but he won’t part with that stuff.”

“Oh he does?  Well then I have just the thing,” she said talking to Mark.  “How about this box of slides?  Look at these.  You could do something with this.”

“Kath?”

“What is this on them,” I inquired.

“Oh those are tissue samples.”

Tissue samples.  And what does one do with glass slides with tissue samples on them?  Do you string them together with fishing line and and make wind chimes?  Do you get a tetanus shot before or after the fact?

On and on it went.  The sofa bed that the cat dug a hole in.  The bedroom set under mounds of blankets.  The wine glasses.  The dishes.  The Virgin Marys.  The tinsel.  The clay pots.  The microwave cart.

“No no no” I said over and over until I wanted to curl up in the hole that the cat made in the sofa in the back room.  Finally when the deal was cut on what we were getting neither of us had the correct change.  We were off by $5.00 and she wouldn’t budge on price.

At that point I was ready to walk away but instead we got in the car and drove thru the McDonald’s drive-in to break a twenty.

“Mark, do you believe in the law of attraction?” I asked as we drove there.  “Because if the universe works within that law then we are doomed.  We attract nut jobs all the time like this dotty old lady trying to unload her crap on us.”

“She is quite the character,” Mark said.

“That’s being generous.  She’s as dotty as they come and we’re at her mercy for a lousy five bucks.  Now we have to go back in there and she’s going to make us look in the Christmas room again with the cheap tinsel and awful silk flower arrangements.  How many times do we have to say no before we’re set free with our lawn mower and stationary bike.  Ten times?  Twenty?  Thirty?  How much, Husband, before she wears us down and breaks us?”

“Stay strong,” Husband advised.

We drove back, stayed outside and handed her the five dollars.  Mark got to talking to her about her lab and some of the things he’s working on.

She has a PhD. in chemistry.  She’s gotten $20,000,000.00 (that’s million) in government contracts and told Mark how to work within the system to get funding for his lab.  They talked about mass spec and atomic force microscopy.  Clearly I was an uninformed outsider in this conversation.  After another fifteen minutes had gone by I said, “Okay, we’ll let you get back to your garbage stuff.  We need to be on our way.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Mark said.  “Can’t wait to use the lawn mower and Kath is really going to love the bike.  She’s been wanting to exercise more.”

Kath is really going to love the bike?  She’s been wanting to exercise more?  What???  Kath who?

I was right all along.

There was somebody dotty in there and it turned out to be me.

When my favorite job came to an abrupt end due to the store closing, I followed my manager and friend to a new place in the arts district of Kansas City.  Though only twenty minutes away, I had never been to this part of town and when I went for the interview it felt a wee bit like my working days in Chicago (minus a big lake).  A deal was struck and I accepted the job.

The area was known for its funky, bohemian vibe for artists of all types.  Somewhat neglected for years, it was experiencing a revival of sorts with lots of interest in that part of town and the old buildings.  The store was located on the street level of a unit that had many condos and lofts right above us.  Our space had previously been a home goods shop and the owner of the company I would work for would spend months putting her funky stamp on it to sell women’s clothing.  Massive windows lined the street side which turned out to be a good thing.  Though the area was well-known for many things, it was not a shopping destination and hours would go by without a single customer.  Watching the comings and goings out the window helped with what at times was overwhelming boredom.

After a few months of us arriving a new tenant moved into the building.  He was from Kansas City but had lived in New York for many years.  He decided to move back to be closer to his family – particularly his father who was getting on in years. 

We got to know him well.  He didn’t know where his mailbox was.  He seemed to always miss the UPS man who would drop his packages off with us.  He couldn’t figure out where to park or how the movers should go about getting down the crowded one-way street..  The first few weeks of his new life seemed to be in constant confusion and he would pop in the store for help on a daily basis.

Nobody minded helping him at all.  He was gorgeous.  Fiftyish, silver haired, lean and blue-eyed, he walked up and down the sidewalk in the sweltering heat of August in his cargo shorts, tshirt and flip flops without so much as a drop of sweat.  If you didn’t know better you’d think he walked off an ad for Ralph Lauren and his horse was tied up around the corner.

He was always grateful for the advice and help but never lingered.  He went about his day with a purpose and many a time I could see him out the window going to his yoga class with his mat tucked under his arm.  I would find out later from some customers that he was an artist.  When I waited on them they kept talking about the art classes they were taking every week from Robert.

“Our Robert,” I asked.  “The Robert around the corner?”

“That’s the one,” they said.  “And isn’t he gorgeous?”  We all laughed and I would find out from them that he also taught ballroom dancing in that loft of his and occasionally hosted art shows.

Our Robert was a true renaissance man.

One day Robert came in to ask me something, turned to leave and came back and said, “I think you have a real unique look with your hair and eyes.  Would you mind if I took some photos of you?”  If Our Cute Robert made my heart flutter when he asked if the UPS man had delivered anything, imagine what it did when he asked to photograph me.

“Sure,” I said like this was a common request and something that would never come to fruition.  Little did I know that he’d appear ten minutes later with a camera.

“Just act normal, pretend I’m not here and I’ll take the pictures.”  How does one act normal when they have a camera a few inches from their face?  How does one do that when this sort of thing has never happened to them before?  I did my best which means I tried extra hard not to be a dork.

“I’m not sure yet what I’m going to do with these yet but I’ll let you know,” he said as he left the store.
A few weeks later I left that job for something closer to the house and so the photos Robert took of me slipped my mind.  Occasionally I would stop in the store to see my old work friends but I never stayed long enough to catch up on everything in the neighborhood.

It was more than a year later that I recalled the photos and so the next time I was in the store I asked about Robert. “He’s still in the building isn’t he?  Does he pop in once in awhile?”

“Oh,” my friend and manager said.  “You wouldn’t have known.  Robert died a few months ago.”

“Robert?  Robert died?”

“Yes.  We hadn’t seen him in awhile and then this woman came in and introduced herself.  She was his sister.  He got pancreatic cancer and she took care of him until the end.  It all seemed so fast.  It was as if he was here one day and fine and then gone the next.”

“Oh.  Oh.  I wasn’t expecting you to say that.  I can’t believe that.  Our perfectly good-looking and talented Robert?  That doesn’t seem possible.”   But it was true.  The silver-haired art teacher who was oblivious to the fan club all around him had moved on.  So had the customer that day who told me she was in his art class.

I left quickly after that.  I had to process this news I heard about Robert – as if sitting in my car in disbelief would make the outcome any different.

Once in awhile I wonder about the photos he took of me that day and if he waved his magic artist wand over them and made them into something special.  I’d like to think so but mostly I wonder what it would have been like to have him twirl you around that loft on 18th St.