Thursday, August 9, 2012
Yesterday was a holiday of some sort, one of the many no-name holidays I never remember. Why should I! I can't keep decorating, and buying cards and putting my shoes on for every freaking holiday on the calendar. So, I ignored it. I went about my day with absolutely no regard for the no- name festivities, wherever they were taking place. I didn't see any parades or balloons or cake. If it wasn't important enough for cake, then why should I take part? But. and this is a big but, when I drove to my local Starbucks to get the daily dose of creamy, coffee latte, the place was closed! Closed! I wept ventis of tears. Damn you no-name holiday! Starbucks is closed and I am coffee-less for the next 24 hours. I want my coffee! How will I survive? How will I cope? Will they find me in the morning, crouched in a corner, withdrawal causing such desperation that I am reduced to chewing six month old beans from a Starbuck's bag? My teeth will be stained muddy brown. My eyes glazed from desperation, my mind crazed by the rancid beans. Please tell me I am having a nightmare and I will wake up to find my world still makes sense. But no, it's not a dream. It's all too horribly true. The sign in the window says, 'We are closed for another no-name holiday.' Sometimes holidays suck.
It was our first date. He was tall, full head of hair, beautiful cheek bones, flat stomach. He was my dream man. We both liked movies. We went to a cozy little theater not far from my house. (just in case things got interesting). Mr. Dreamy opened the car door for me. He put his hand lightly on my back to help me in. Ahhhhhhh. Swooning. He gave me his hand to help me out. He paid for the tickets and the drinks and the popcorn. "Would you like to get a big bucket and share?" he asked. "No thank you," I meekly replied. "I'll just have a small." So, Mr. D. bought me a small. There we were, sitting close together in the dark. He smelled vaguely of pine needles and after shave. Ahhhhhh. More swooning. Just as I was thinking, what a man, what a man, what a mighty good man, he put his hand into my popcorn box. Nobody puts their hand into my popcorn box, not unless they are willing to risk losing a finger. It was over before the first credit rolled on the screen.
This soft, sunny, summer morning I awoke to the sound of local church bells ringing. I stretched, looked out of the window at my beautiful garden, saw two Robins and a sweet baby bun hopping and romping in the yard. Lovely, lovely, lovely, day to be alive. Birds are singing, bells are ringing, could anyone ask for more? Then — my cat threw up. She made that hideous, hiccuping, retching sound they all make as they force the gift of vomit onto their devoted owners. She finished the first course on my handmade bedroom rug and quickly pussy-footed down the stairs to serve the second course on my vintage, oriental one. Then, just when I thought the crisis had passed, she served the last course on the authentic Irish rug that had perfectly matched my sofa pillows, until today. Ahh cats, I thought, they have excellent taste in rugs.