Lots of Bubbly

New Years Eve 2013

266 bottles of Barefoot Bubbly rolled out the door tonight during my three hour and fifteen minute shift. I could hardly keep the sample cups lined-up, answering questions, making up my favorites flavors, based on what I was pouring, and having a ball. I procured a few samples for myself as well as some of the liquor store staff since we had yet to try a few of the varietals.

A number of already tipsy customers arrived to select their resupply bottles from my limited options but they were happy. One woman squealed when I handed her a baby blue rubber ice cube tray with cute little bare feet cut-outs, for their party hostess. I am not certain the lady of the house actually got the gift, it most likely never left the middle man’s purse.

Got 18 out of 18 on my latest test, halfway through week number 5 and I am already getting nervous for the final in another weeks time. Normally I forget my first name when I hear, see, think about the word “test.” Test, test, test. I practice so I am not unjustifiably reactive. I have done well enough on the exams of the previous four weeks to feel more confident, if not giddy, about taking the last assessment of the recently acquired information. Remains to be seen, how I move through life after this class. My aim is to start another business, make a stab at marketing myself, so I don’t have to find a real job ever again. I have some ideas to kick around, resources to do the research, and time to build a plan before launching it. Will keep you in the loop, my friends.

Games People Play

December 30, 2013

We play games as though they mean something. Banana Grams, Heads Up, Sorry!, Apples to Apples, Monopoly are real life, in the moment of rolling the dice, choosing the card, moving the piece across the colorful board, scowling at someone else's luck. Competitive gents rush to choose viable teammates to gain the prize and chalk-up another mark opposite of the LOSERS. Eventually, spirits sag and the one with the least amount of wins, leaves the table for another cocktail, a much-needed restroom break or a toss of the arms and declaration of giving-in. 

Conversation turns to terrible weather, traffic accidents, breaking news, hilarious work situations, devastating family circumstances, tumultuous neighbor relations, heart-wrenching health issues, banal home news, or disastrous sporting event outcomes. Current travel plans are discussed at length and outrageous past experiences come into play. A gathering of long-time friends is precious and should be “order of the day” for each week of the New Year. Ecstatic to be included.

He Hangs 'Round

December 29, 2013

     He seems lonely, the guy hanging out, yet another night, after the coffee shop closes, watching the comely young women sanitize the countertops, meticulously scour the espresso machine, leaning over the mop to scrub the tiled floor. The ladies are too polite, and a bit intimidated, to ask him to leave the premises. Perhaps he feels deserved, after spending hours lounging around the front table, checking his emails, lurking with a recent innocuous publication in his lap, perusing the baked goodie bags marked down to a few dollars, white crisp sacks that line up along the stainless to lure the frugal clientele. The little man purchased a 12 ounce brew, not needing to demand his usual ceramic cup to slurp in-house. The girls arch eyebrows over his head and nod in agreement. He should not be in the shop yet, at least they are in a clump, keeping an eye on one another until one finally latches the door behind his shadow. Giggles of relief leave their mouths, not truly realizing they were more than a bit on-edge as he scattered his weird energy around their bodies.

Baking Hockey Pucks

One of My Six Sisters Birthdays, 2013

     Little Brian was telling me about his pee wee hockey game the other night. After the tied game, the family took him out for celebratory ice cream. “My Aunt asked me why I wasn’t so tired this time,” he commented. “It’s ‘cause I got to sit in the penalty box for two minutes to rest.” He got the first penalty of the season, first penalty for the team in it’s short history.  “My Uncle Randy sits in there all the time,” Brian relayed, “so he gets a lot of rest.” What other reply could I possibly have but, “Cool.”

     Much of the time, I end up being the radio announcer at Mrs. “B’s” since she adores football, baseball, hockey and an occasional basketball game. Since she cannot view the screen, I keep track of the score and what inning or quarter we are in at any given time. Games are interrupted with showers, noise of the meal preparation and the off-chance visitor. Fixed pot roast, chicken and sides, hamburger and curly fries, promptly overcooking the muffins I had forgotten about in the oven. Could use them as a hockey puck at Brian’s next game but tossed them out with the garbage. No sense having Mrs. “B” choke to death while sucking in the dust from a dry boxed muffin. Promised her I would call her best friend and request a muffin delivery. There are few delights in life, sweets is one of hers.

     Santa was good to me this year. Mrs. “B” made out like a bandit as well. New fleece pj’s, slippers (so we can now throw out the old ones that fly off her swollen feet at inopportune times,) candies, sweet breads, lap blanket, and many visitors. The grandkids came to collect their goodie sacks. When Cal, the great grandchild told grandma her writing is “Great!” Because I had jotted the kids names on the bags for her, Mrs. “B” asked if his name was written in cursive or printed. “It’s normal, Grandma, just normal.” Two envelopes remained on the table, unclaimed. Mrs. “B” is not pleased that her grandson, who happens to live in town, has not come by for a visit with his wife and children. Luckily, she cannot see the evidence, parked against the reindeer made of plastic pine needles, to make her sad and rejected. Hopefully, by the time I return on Monday for work, they will have come and spent time with grandma, giving her the pleasure of a long visit and bring a muffin or two.

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.