You are currently browsing the monthly archive for October 2007.
I’m kissing the baby (who is pacing and saying mmm, mmm, mmm) goodbye when I remark that he tastes like Junior Mints.
Ed’s response: “Candy is like tequila for babies. Pretty soon, he’s gonna get mean.”
I learned from you how to love someone and how to be loved. We were co-dependent and dysfunctional, but I will never forget things — like laying in your bed singing Spinal Tap songs.
The last real co-op in the cities is closing. I haven’t been there since I was in college, and it had moved since then, but no matter. I have the fondest memories of wandering among its musty aisles, marveling at the bulk foods section. During my short stint as a vegetarian (bad, bad idea for someone who loves bacon as much as I do), I shopped there a lot and was even a member for a little while. I bought countless boxes of falafel mix and took home many little bags full of granola and lentils.
From what I have been told, it’s hard to sustain a true co-op — one where volunteers actually staff the store. But the dirty hippies behind the register who had to hunt and peck for every key were part of the charm of the place. And though I am far from the days when I could actually get everything I needed from a tiny hovel of a food store, I love the idea of a co-op. And, I might as well face it, thinking of the co-op reminds me of a time when my life was simple. A box of jasmine rice, a bag full of lentils and a handful of vegetables could feed me for a week.
Now I have to fill a cart at Rainbow to make it three days.
Sigh.
My book soulmate — so many nights spent at Richmond’s eating buffalo wings, drinking Sierra Nevada, talking about Anne Tyler or Hemingway. I’m glad I can still e-mail you after I read something great.
Shy and sweet one day, getting in fights and obsessing about S&M the next. I wonder where you are now and if you are the sweet Cory or the one who went bananas.
My sister was in town, so we spent a rare Saturday night out. On the way home, the sister-in-law (who’s pregnant and got stuck driving around the obnoxious drunks — sorry) had the Footloose soundtrack in the CD player. The rest of us sang along, seat danced and reminisced about the 80’s. Somewhere along the line, the brother-in-law opened the sunroof and cranked the volume. So as we pulled in our driveway (which is inches from the ghetto neighbor’s house), we were blaring “I’m Free (Heaven Helps The Man).”
The best, best part of the whole thing was that there was a chick who peeled back the curtains and glared at us as we drove in. I’m sure she was thinking, “Jesus that’s horrible!” But I’m also sure her windows weren’t rattling like mine do when the hoopties roll up. Why? Because I swear to God there is NO BASS on the entire soundtrack.
How white can we get?
44 inches of snow in 2 days. I dug my car out the first day with a shovel. The second day, you came along with your front-end loader and dug me out. Thanks.
You lived on a creek (pronounced crick) and made turtle booya. You jury-rigged a refrigerator so it could keep your keg of Old Milwaukee cold. It had a tapper affixed to the front.
The best compliment anyone has ever paid me was when you told me how happy you were to finally have a sister. I love that you drink pink wine and hate fresh herbs.
So, I pick up Simon from the Y day care after my exercise class, and they make me sign a form. The form says:
“Simon pulled Isabel’s hair so hard some of it came out.”
Great. My kid’s a hair-pulling psychopath. They’ve also complained about his hitting other kids on the head with cars and biting. Lots of biting.
And I’m running late. So I apologize (again), and grab the little hoodlum. As I’m buckling him into the car, I smell something suspicious. Great. So I throw him on the floor of the van and wipe the corn-poo off his behind, get a clean diaper on him and wrestle (that’s an understatement) him into the car seat.
As I pull into the preschool lot, I notice chatty Dawn has pulled in just before me. I was hoping that the bright side of my being late would be that I wouldn’t have to make small talk with the horse whisperer. (The woman massages horses for a living.) Alas.
In Clare’s classroom, she’s one of the last ones there, and one of the teachers is comforting her. She’s crying pretty loudly. I ask what’s wrong, and she says she doesn’t want to use the preschool potty. She has a major issue with using public restrooms, or any toilet that flushes. At this point, I’ve resigned myself to cleaning poo out of a little plastic bowl once a day for the rest of my life. But I digress.
I pick Clare up, give her a hug and try to comfort her and talk to the teacher about what’s happening and how we can solve the problem. And who should butt in (totally fucking cuts me off in the middle of my conversation with the teacher), but horse lady.
“Did you get to work out today? Because as far as I know, they turned at least four of us away,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say, copping my best dismissive voice. “It was really full today.” I start whispering in Clare’s ear — something about how the potties at the preschool are really cute. And wouldn’t it be fun to sit on one?
“Last time I was there, they were out of the little weights. You know, I can’t lift much weight because I hurt my shoulder.”
(Yes, she who resembles a horse, I do know that, because you stand next to me in class and whine all about it. Did I mention I hate being talked to while I’m trying to work out? No? I didn’t? Well, I HATE IT.)
“We’ll try again tomorrow, OK, Angie? OK, Clare?” Ignoring. Crazy. Woman.
“Well, I went and worked out anyway. Did some walking on the treadmill. You know, they are going to start giving people hand stamps so that they know how many are going to class. If you don’t have a hand stamp, you can’t go.”
Ignore.
“Angie, did you see Clare’s mittens? I can’t find them anywhere.”
“I really hope they do that. It’s frustrating to get there and then not be able to get into class. Some of the other women were mad, too.”
“Oh, I see, they’re in her pockets. Thanks. Simon, come on, it’s time to go! Thanks Angie — we’ll keep working on the potty thing.”
And as I’m bolting for the door, she is still talking. “Hope to see you Tuesday! That is, if class isn’t too full!”
