Take Care of the Servants Day

Boxing Day, 2013

     Whether you are in a country where this official holiday is observed, servants receive presents from their employers, or not, you can have the day off, as far as I am concerned. I am celebrating by giving my Self a gift of not working, day to relax, sleep late and spend oodles of time with my family. Cousins who don’t get to visit frequently take off sledding, after the scrumptious meal of home spun raviolis, made way to the nearest bowling alley for some fun.

    The adults drink wine and catch up on humorous stories about work. One woman has a part-time job at the local dry cleaners and we rolled around the room, cackling until our sides ache. Poor Mrs Hussey was the brunt of our cheer, who suffers from terrible incontinence, bringing in her stained pant to be laundered. As if the teen girl behind the counter could relate to a sneeze attack followed by urinating in her drawers. The employee had the look of terror on her face as she took in the damaged slacks. This led to countless customer tales of odd stains and horrific accidents due to loose bowels or uncontrollable vomiting spells. Remind me never to apply for work at a dry cleaning establishment. I would be chortling all day and never want to leave the front counter, not even for a bathroom break.  

   

Santa Revealed

Christmas Day, 2013

     360 men and a handful of women, bundled in ratty vests, thin coats, lined faces, rough hands and grateful murmurings shuffled into the room. They got a hot meal and a place to sort through their feelings about Christmas while listening to Gail playing carols on the piano. The first group of nine were served their slab of drippy ham, semi-green peas with orange bits I believe were pieces of carrot, a hunk of stuck au gratin potatoes, watery yams and a flaky croissant. I cheerfully asked if they had a favorite Christmas story, and since no one piped-up, I told them of my daughter’s inquiry, at four years of age, about whether Santa is real. Given I wanted to always be truthful to her, I admitted Santa is not real. In her next naive breathe, she demanded “Then the Easter Bunny is you too?” I explained that other parents may want their kids to believe in Santa so she has to promise me she will not tell anyone what I revealed to her. She emphatically assured me her lips are sealed.

     Of course, the very next day at Wee Care Daycare, Taelor spilled the beans and told all of the kids Santa is a fake. Her best friend, Shannon cried all day. Her mother called me that evening, one of many conversations I was to have that night, complaining that Taelor ruined her child’s magic of Santa Clause. It took me some time to convince the parents that all would be well the minute the kids saw him at the Mall or were read a Christmas story.

     The recipients of the Union Gospel Mission’s complimentary meal, and my daughter’s tale seemed happy to spend the time with me and the other twelve tables in the vast, open room that converts to sleeping quarters after dark.

     After milk and cookies, a cup of Kemp’s ice cream and a bit of chatter, the guys were on their way and another group moved forward from the long line out the door. I sat, at one point, to have horrid coffee with powdered creamer and a Danish with the crew. A very grateful Christmas day.

Joyous "J"

Christmas Eve, 2013 share

     An angel is in our midst. A humble and grateful young man who share s himself fully, without the usual connotation of neediness or accepting pity for his situation. A hard, difficult, unbearable upbringing, though he tells bits and pieces as though they belong to a dear friend that he welcomes into his home. Tales of his meager Christmas’ past embrace us. The rest of the group discusses our humorous holiday stories and favorite presents, no one can “top” the Guide. He told us that his mom sat he (at three years of age,) his brother and little sister down, to make them aware that Santa is a fake. He suggests he appreciates that honesty and wouldn’t have had it any other way. A world traveler, calling each place home, spoke of living in the moment, creating space for each adventure, making it, willing it, magnetizing it to him, as though the destinations were chosen specifically for him versus his deciding on the next stopover. Though we shook hands upon meeting, like strangers, I hugged him to me in delight as we departed, to be forever changed.

    

Blackened Christmas

December 23, 2013

     It is a musher’s secret kinda night. That is the gel I have to put on my friend’s little dog’s paws before we go out for a run-as-fast-as-you-can-until-you-poop walk. I shoosh along like a little girl on double-blade skates, with the hopes that I don’t go down for a tumble. A young man ran past me in skimpy pants, a long sleeved-tee and wool hat. I stood for a long while, watching him confidently take-on the sidewalks with envy-stimulating graceful strides.   

     The smoke detector screams each time I turn on a burner, set up the toaster or light a match for a candle. The darned thing is so sensitive and I frantically wave a dish towel in front of it, switch-on the ceiling fan and wave the back door open and shut a dozen times before the squalling halts. If I don’t hear footsteps tromping around upstairs, I have to glance out the front window to peer out into the street to see if the tenant is home. His hours are so erratic, I am afraid I am waking him from a dead sleep with the smoke alarm. He must think I am a horrendous cook, forever burning the chef’s special. Drat.

     A bag is deposited on my door mat with an envelope. Unfortunately, the first thoughts that entered my mind is, “Great, I don’t have time to shop for something for this gifter.” Silly me. I chuckled and opened the card. Sent a quick text to let him know it wasn’t snatched and to thank him for his generosity, Merry, Merry and all that. I do not have to reciprocate but I may do something for him in the future. He certainly wouldn’t expect anything from my kitchen-nothing that wasn’t singed, scorched or black as the night sky.

Christmas Came Early

December 22, 2013

     Knuckles swollen like an old man’s. Happens when I the weather changes and I am wetting my hands constantly. None of the physicians seem to know what causes it, let alone how to correct it. So, I wring my paws in agony, holding them against the warmth of wool or thick cotton gloves, cradle a cup of tea or coffee, sit on them or snuggle up to someone to hold hands. Since it is a seasonal issue, I have a reason to cuddle and no one minds the strange woman with an obsession to be close.

     Exchanged gifts in the middle of the restaurant, over coffee and meatless Eggs Benedict. People within the vicinity hovered to see what present would come next. Despite the crinkled re-purposed wrap, my guest was not in the least hesitant to obey my order, to open a few of the things I delivered on Santa’s behalf. The joy, amazement and pleasure coming from a sixty-something year old (it is unforgiveable for me to reveal her true age) woman’s face was precious. Thrilling games, gorgeous specialty cards, hedgehogs scented with lavender tags for the car, a humorous magnet, lovely notebook, wipes for the obsessively clean, and a handmade card. The table of folks next to us continued to make comments about the items, enjoying them as much, if not more, than her. They insisted on asking where I purchased these delightful things and whispered the question of price. I could hardly reveal my sources. The three year old darling Hispanic girl, hair curled for the occasion, dressed in a lavender pants suit made for a princess, with lace trim, made her way through the obstacle course of tables, to peek over my girlfriend’s shoulder to catch a better glimpse of the gifts. Her big brownie eyes took in the celebration behind a pinched hairpiece. Elegant Mary Janes completed the ensemble, along with her busy hands, flapping a bit with each prize being removed from the rumpled Victoria’s Secret sack.          

    Adore shopping for someone, if I am not in a time crunch. I like to think about them and their interests, how they decorate their bedroom, what they do in their spare time, how they dress, and what they read. Most difficult are the people who buy everything they want and need for themselves. Stop doing that!

Demo Duties 101

December 21, 2013

     The GNC was actually closed when we arrived yet the front door was still unlatched. “Sorry, we are shut!,” came the voice from the back of the register. “That’s okay, we understand, we just have a question, do you have avocado oil?” “No” As we departed, the clerk shouted out “Thank you for being nice! Have a wonderful night.”

     This was our last stop of the night, searching high and low for things like expelled or cold-pressed Caster Oil, Avocado Oil, Sunflower Oil, the ingredients to make some sort of facial wash for holiday gifts.  According to the website, they are common items, found in any grocery store. Sure. The level of anxiety increases as the retail hours draw to a close and Christmas gifts are attended to, after finals week, end-of-Semester performances, work study employment coming to a close before Break and exhaustion has taken over. Santa’s helper wasn’t much of a resource, unfortunately. The “in” I have with the 88 ¾ year old wasn’t particularly helpful in this case, either.

     One must have persistency, consistency, patience, commitment, be willing to sacrifice and yell, scream and cry-out at times, in order to be a creative, spontaneous, have a need for achievement, some pride, and time, to make-your-own goodies for Winter Solstice, Christmas, Hanukkah, and such.

     Tonight, as I arrived for my wine demo, the Manager commented “I thought you were coming yesterday.”  I could have argued that I spoke to her directly on Monday, giving her an idea of the varietals of product I need to pour, confirmed the time and date, and let her know I am looking forward to selling their full line of Barefoot product. Quite a few customers, whom I nearly tripped-up to get them to sample the Bubbly, gave me the shaft. I was inept and frustrated this evening. Word to the wise, eye contact and a smile to the demo person is always a bonus to us. Even if you don’t try the samples, at least acknowledge we are there, in front of you, and doing our job.

Thank you!

Syrupy Sales

December 20, 2013

  Pounding at the door at 8:30am. Carol wants to buy two quarts of syrup for stocking stuffers. This is why I hesitate to jump into retail again, customers can be sooo demanding.

  Guy upstairs is traipsing around early, he has been working all hours of the day and night, can’t keep track of his schedule. Now I hear running so the kids must be over. The dog races back and forth across the floor when they are here as well. Not a peep from the cat, however.

  “This makes me want to climb a tree like a monkey and grab a coconut,” exclaims Mrs. B as I open the top of her new cream last night. I knew she would like it. Added to her holiday card, “Since you are 88 ¾, you must know Santa personally. Could you put in a good word for me?” She laughed like a little girl and we got her undressed for our shower. Difficult not to get soaked while bathing someone in a large shower with close-quarters bathroom. Last week I had failed to bring along my extra pants so I took her in with just my top layers, leveling the playing field. She got a kick out of that, despite the fact that she can’t see anything. I just hoped no one would come over, most family and complex staff family just       

walk in, announcing themselves as they come through the door. As Mrs. B was talking with her best friend on the phone later (whom I also know well) she mentioned my showering technique. Mrs. F squealed back “I am picturing it now.” And the rumors flew. Great.