Tuesday, March 30, 2021
Sunday, March 28, 2021
Saturday, March 27, 2021
Friday, March 26, 2021
Wednesday, March 24, 2021
Monday, March 22, 2021
Saturday, March 20, 2021
Friday, March 19, 2021
Thursday, March 18, 2021
Monday, March 15, 2021
Sunday, March 14, 2021
Saturday, March 13, 2021
Friday, March 12, 2021
Thursday, March 11, 2021
"What's blue curaçao anyway?" the guy at the liquor store asks.
This taps right into my genetic predisposition to explain everything to anybody who asks (and many who don't). My parents and my sister either currently are, or once were, teachers, so I guess it's in my blood.
"It's just regular orange curaçao, but dyed blue, for some reason," I say, trying to play it off like it's not a big deal to know stuff, even though I'm secretly delighted.
Wednesday, March 10, 2021
The tub has been draining slowly, lately, turning showers into wading pools. It seemed to happen overnight, working well one day and then suddenly not, but of course it must have been a process of some kind - the gradual accumulation in the pipes of hair and soap, the buildup, maybe over years, of shampoo scum and dirt until, finally, the water could no longer pass.
I find myself imagining growing older as I think about this. Errors in the DNA proliferating, wear and tear accruing to joints and ligaments, the whole system running down until, one day, seemingly out of nowhere (while actually quite predictable, a bill long due) the system loses integrity, and either is put back together, or fails.
Monday, March 8, 2021
Sunday, March 7, 2021
"Where are you from?" she asks. presumably in response to some regionalism I dropped in my speech.
"Oh, I've been her since 1996," I reply airily.
"You look far too young for that!" her eyes widening in shock.
"If my wife were here, she might think you were flirting with me," I tease, and the laugh-lines around her eyes deepen with her smile.
Saturday, March 6, 2021
Friday, March 5, 2021
"We've done both trainings," my co-worker tells our manager when she asks, as he gives me a significant look.
"Actually, I still need to do the first part," I say, and my co-worker rolls his eyes at my blowing his attempt to help me. There's no point in telling him that I'm not super great at lying, so I don't usually bother since it tends to be more trouble than it's worth, and easier to just do what I said I was gonna do.
"Sorry, I didn't know the play," I tell him later as a way to patch things up, but he doesn't seem to mind one way or the other, so it's fine.
Wednesday, March 3, 2021
I've only got a few minutes before we have to leave to meet our friend, so I make my trip to the grocery store brief: a few frozen meals for lunches at work, a couple of energy bars, a quick self-checkout, and I'm on my way.
But here, at the exit, I am blocked. A tall, middle-aged, blond man stands outside in front of the automatic door, talking earnestly into his wrist, triggering the sensor so that the door will not open outward from my side and kill him, as I would so dearly like to do at this moment.
I tap sharply on the glass, and he startles, surprised at the presence of other human beings in his world, before he moves off to one side with a partly sheepish, partly annoyed expression so I can leave.
Tuesday, March 2, 2021
"Mail for you," our roommate sings, tossing the envelopes on the table.
"For me?" I exclaim in mock-delight.
"Well, mostly for Katie."
"This one says 'New York Resident,' so that's me," picking up one of the envelopes and waving it at him.