Are There Granite Countertops in Heaven?

by Patti

As a former Realtor and a generally fascinated-by-human nature person, I’m a little obsessed with House Hunters. Yes, I now know the truth about the show: that the house hunters featured on the show have actually already chosen a home and are only weeks from moving in, and the 3 “choices” they are faced with are total fake-outs. (Which, as a former Realtor, I can also tell you is totally unrealistic. How dreamy my weekends would have been if I only ever had to show 3 properties to a buyer.)

Oh? You didn’t know this? Well, let me do you a life favor by saying this right now: Reality television, my ass.

Anyway, despite the fake-out factor, and the fact that because I know the choices these people agonize over are not even real so their reactions make them look like budget movie actors, I still can’t get enough of the show.   

And why, I don’t know. Because all I do the entire time is yell at the television. I cringe when the woman half of the couple complains about how there is no way on earth she can possibly cook in a kitchen that has a working stove, oven, microwave and refrigerator because THERE ARE NO GRANITE COUNTERTOPS MY GOD HOW IS THIS DOABLE; how there is only one sink in the master; how the closet, which is the size of my first apartment, cannot possibly fit her 8943 pairs of shoes.  And it never fails that when the man spots a spare room or a basement, it instantly becomes his “man cave”. I loathe the phrase ‘man cave’ with the fiery passion of 6 billion burning suns.  And when they both complain about the spots on the carpet or the paint color, as if these things are permanent deal-breakers that can never ever be fixed or changed, I roll my eyes so hard it hurts.

Yet, I can’t stop watching.

And getting mad in the process.

As a woman who was pregnant and lived through a renovation (I had to pee in a bucket. A BUCKET!), and still survived with ‘only’ one bathroom for 3 people even after said renovation; as a person who has never ever had a master bathroom, much less 2 sinks in one bathroom, but somehow still managed to stay clean; as a person who has yet to know what it is to have granite in her kitchen yet still manages to feed her family and not eat on the floor, these House Hunter women? Kind of piss me off.  I mean, I understand wanting what you want when you are paying a good chunk-o-change for a house, and yes, the luxuries are nice and let’s get real, who wouldn’t want them, but my God people, perspective!

And M’s ‘man cave’? Consists of lying on the couch with our kid flung across him, and my foot in his face. When he is really in need of some space, he will go to the garage and break out the tools and ‘fix’ things on his car. Otherwise? We are all stuck together. Every room in the house belongs to all of us. There are no ‘Man Zones’. Yet! He somehow manages to survive and remain a man in the process! It’s amazing!

I must be a masochist, because as pissed off and eye-rolly as I get when watching this show, I still can’t get enough. Apparently, I plan to House Hunt my way to my own death-by-annoyance, and as long as there are granite countertops in Heaven, that’s fine with me.

What Not to Wear

by Cathy & Patti

The other day we were complaining to each other about the sad state of our prospective wardrobes. We both need new clothes in the worst way; sadly, other more important things always come up which seem to put a dent in the fashion fund: Things like ballet lessons, and tennis lessons, and tuition, and Chicago-style gas bills, and weird car noises, and allergy medications, and, oh yeah, food. This got us thinking about all the creative tactics we have both put into practice in trying to figure out what the hell to put on in the mornings. We are both working girls, and although it would be fun to lounge around in yoga pants all day, it just ain’t feasible. Much to the chagrin of our closets, we must represent.
……………………….

Patti:
My what-to-wear tactic involves mustering up an outfit in my head as I fall asleep. Once it is completely put together in the Fantasia Land of my brain, I can then happily fall asleep relaxed, knowing it’s all taken care of. The next morning, since I know it’s all taken care of, I press the “snooze” button a few too many times because, hey! I already know what I’m wearing, and that is ¾ of the morning battle. Of course, once I finally get around to getting out of bed and I actually put on the dreamed-up outfit, it is inevitably a total disaster. What was I thinking, putting together an outfit as I am falling asleep? WHO THINKS CLEARLY AT THE THRESHOLD OF CONSCIOUSNESS?

Because I now do not have enough time, I am then propelled into bionic get-ready mode, and one can find me in my closet tossing shirts into the air, flinging pants and skirts around, and sniffing stuff to check if it’s dirty. The end result? Pants pulled from the Dredges of the Misfits, put on with creative attempts at trying to make them not look so like hell: The cuffs might be rolled up in an attempt to make them look “edgy” instead of “high-watery”; the waist, which is now baggy, is cinched with a sparkly belt in an attempt to make them look “trendy” instead of “stretched out and misshapen”. That sparkly belt? Actually belongs to my 10-year old daughter.

Then come the shoes. Oh, the shoes. All of my shoes are in desperate need of cobbler care. The heel tips are all worn and raggedy, and although I have creatively Sharpied the shit out of some of those heels, I also dig into the Dredges of Misfits for shoes that don’t look like I wore them to travel to Italy 2 years ago - BY FOOT. Of course I end up with shoes I have never worn before, and for good reason: The heels are 5-inch heels, and your co-workers end up commenting all day on how tall you suddenly seem, which is subtle speak for "you look like a hooker."

Cathy:
Like Patti, I too mentally scour my closet at night as I am drifting off to the land of nod. (I had no idea she did this until now. Which got me to thinking, how many other women lay in their beds at night dreaming up the 853rd creative way to wear those same clothes or even dig way back in the corners of their mental closets in desperation to introduce something old as new again?) The process helps me relax and forget about the stressful day I've had or the one awaiting me tomorrow. It's something I do for myself. Of course half the time I never complete the whole ensemble in my head because I get too exhausted trying to re-work the unworkable and make it look fresh. I just conk out and deal with it the next morning.

Dealing with it consists of the following: Standing in front of my open closet, assembling outfits in my head with every piece of clothing I haven't ruled out yet. This eventually leads to Closet Eyelock, a condition that occurs when you've been standing there longer than it takes to MAKE the clothes, until your eyes glaze over and before you know it, you are daydreaming about what to eat for lunch. By then, you have 2.3 minutes to get ready and the end result is some mismatched, ridiculously thrown together outfit we desperately try to make look halfway cool. If we don't get 'out with the old and in with the new' soon we'll be dangerously inching towards the slippery slope of clothing disasters known as Midwestern Moda.
……………………….

Yes, our closets are in sad, shapeless shape. Our staples are actually stapled, our basics are boring, our shoes are shot. But the good news is? Damn, we are some creative bitches.

Kidterruptions

by Patti

If you are a mother, you already know what it is like to attempt to have a conversation or to form an intelligent thought when there are children buzzing about. Somehow, you are always reduced to fractured sentences and half-assed thoughts because, well, it is nearly impossible to finish ANYTHING when kids are nearby. I call these: “kidterruptions”.

The other day, Cathy and I were at the ballet studio waiting for our girls to finish their class. I had brought the laptop with me so that we could work on a few things for the blog since most of our “business meetings” consist of harried texts or frenzied 10-minute online chats, and we rarely get the opportunity to discuss anything pertaining to the blog in person.  We found a quiet, dark corner in the studio, and I fired up the laptop.

Cathy had also brought her 5-year old daughter Ari along that day, and Ari was excited because the studio had just thrown a surprise party for one of the dancers, and there was cake and popcorn and other treats. We were both relieved, thinking that these treats and excitement would actually distract Ari and give us some time to ourselves. However, as we both tried to read over some materials, Ari tapped her mother on the arm like a woodpecker on a tree no less than 20 times in a span of about 10 minutes to ask her about the popcorn, cake, water, games, could she look at videos on her phone, could she look at videos on MY phone, could she watch the girls dance, could she have some candy, could she have more popcorn, could Cathy GET her that popcorn…..

After a mini-snap by Cathy, who had been amazingly patient up to this point, we finally got Ari settled into a chair with some popcorn to watch a video on my phone, and tried to get back down to business. That is when two other girls that were definitely not ours began to interrupt us, too. Did we want some candy? Did we like the cake? Would we like something to drink? Would we like some popcorn? Did we see the balloons? What was Ari doing on the phone?

I looked up and then back down to my computer screen for the bajillionth time, and realized that I had been reading the same sentence for the past 10 minutes. I finally just gave up attempting to form an intelligent thought about what it was that I was reading, and edited Mommy Style: “Looks good to me!” I told Cathy. And the thing was: I had no idea whether it looked good or not; I no longer cared. Because I couldn’t finish what I started and there was no point in even trying to finish.

It only took one glance between us for us to understand one another: The constant kidterruptions had reached peak levels, and our brains had simply switched off to protect themselves from exploding.

I remember before I became a mother, I would call girlfriends that already had kids and try to have a conversation with them on the phone. It never failed that those conversations were punctuated by a “REED! PUT THAT DOWN!” or a “THOMAS! GET THAT OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!”, and of course, the classic, “CAN’T YOU SEE I’M ON THE PHONE!” I admit: I used to get impatient; feel slighted, even.

Now? After having done the exact same thing to childless friends, I know better; I can now sympathize. And apparently, I have been physically branded by constant kidterruptions, because not only do I have my own kid to blame for fractured conversations, OTHER kids can somehow see that I am fair game, and they interrupt my conversations, too.

So the next time you ---

(Sorry, kidterruption.)  

Cheap Chic

by Cathy

I am admitting it here. I am a designer brand fanatic. I love me some designer duds and accessories. But seeing as other priorities now grab hold of my weekly paycheck, it's quite the rare opportunity that I have to allow myself extravagant luxuries.

So naturally, when I heard about the Missoni launch at Target stores, I was all over that. Regular Janes like you and I would now have the chance to own a Missoni - designer level quality and style for 'cheap' compared to what it would sell at a shi shi store it normally sells in. However, I never expected the Missoni Madness that ensued, whereby crowds of anxious designer brand whores like me lined up hours before the stores opened and cleaned out the place within a half hour. No, that I did not expect.

As I've frequented Target stores since then, I have found that with every visit, more and more Missoni items have been slinking their way back on Target shelves. 'Buyers remorse' had set in for those that spent too much and couldn't sell the items on eBay. So there they were. The other day, I happened upon a Missoni knit vest (I had been in the market for a good vest for a while now). It was size large, but it was Missoni and I would make it work. I snagged up a pair of chocoalate lace zig zag tights and zig zagged my way home.

The next day (naturally) I wore the vest. I was at Costco (naturally) waiting in line, when I noticed the woman in front of me look over and smile as she eyed me up and down, slowly placing her humungous bag of croutons on the conveyer belt. She looked away and then back at me, this time, holding her industrial sized bag of broccoli. "Were you there? Were you part of the madness on the first day?" And immediately, like I've known her for years, I knew exactly what she was asking me.
"Can you believe," I responded without missing a beat, "I got this yesterday?"
An incredulous, low-pitched "Nooo!" was her wide-eyed response.
"And you're gonna die," I continued, almost tauntingly but with an obvious twinge of pride. She was smiling wide at this point, waiting for my next line like a child about to be handed an ice cream cone. "Seven bucks."
She threw her hand up in disbelief. "What?!? B..but..HOW?"
I touched her hand to calm her down and explain my strategy in the hopes she would be so lucky. "It had no pricetage and when I went to ask about it at the service desk, they told me it was on online purchase. So it was seven dollars."

There we were, at the Costco checkout line, exchanging stories about the Missoni Madness - because every brand-loving woman out there had one. She went on about how she was part of the 'first day' madness, a part of the chaos that will go down in shopping history, at least in her mind. She ended our exchange with, "Well, at least we'll have something to remember it all with."

As I cordially nodded goodbye, I concluded that what makes us women genuinely happy and gives us reason to strike up conversations with complete strangers about our wardrobe and spending history, is simply snagging a good bargain. And if it happens to be a designer brand?

Waaaay better.

Just When You Think It's Safe...

by Cathy

Just this past weekend, as the temperatures dipped into the 40s at night, I safely packed away my last plastic tote filled with our summer clothes. It took me almost two full weeks to complete this Seasonal Switchout Shuffle. After going through entire wardrobes for each one of us - donating clothes that Ari has outgrown, organizing and labeling by size the clothes that Bella has outgrown (for Ari) and sorting through everything from pj's to shoes for me and Joe, I was finally done. Summer clothes were neatly stored away, labeled, and placed in storage.

As a native of Chicago, I know better than to lock them up and throw away the key. In fact, instead of placing these totes in the jumbled drepths of my storage, I have instead placed them right inside the entrance to the storage for easy access. Why? I've come to recognize the games the weather here plays. Just when you think it's safe to assume that a new season is upon us, it isn't.

This week it's supposed to reach 80 degrees. "But it's not a summer 80," my perpetually cold husband warned. "It's October. Let's not get crazy." Some could say this is our Indian Summer, but I would like to think that is still down the road, ready to rear its pretty head and surprise us in November.

For this reason, I have left a few summer staples mixed in with the current winter stuff I recently pulled from the dark corners of our storage; I never keep those at the ready. The bin of shoes and accessories near our back door contains everything from hats, scarves and boots to flip flops, Crocs and sunscreen. And the outfits we Chicagoans will concoct this week? Total Midwestern Moda.

But fellow Chicagoans will never scoff at said outfits because they know better. We have a Seasonal Spring Salad Mix to choose from on a day to day basis here, depending on the weather. We are all in the same proverbial boat of weather confusion together. Except...when there's no denying the fact that we are in full on blizzard mode. Then, we take our easily accessible summer clothes, start packing and head to Miami for a much needed sunny reprieve. Yet another reason to keep your summer duds at the ready.

Why My Country Club Application Was Rejected

by Patti
 
I was performing with my band at a very “shoo-shoo” country club. There were so many sets of pearls walking around I wondered if all the world’s oysters had not met their fate at this particular place.

I felt a little out of place, what with my short, satiny cocktail dress. It was cinched at the waist and featured a zipper that ran the length of the front. It was very modern and cute, with pockets, and a little flared out skirt. But I definitely stood out against the backdrop of conservative sheaths and sensible shoes.

On my break, I hit the washroom to touch up my lip gloss and fluff up my humidity hair, and ran into one of the relatives of the bride.  She was appropriately tanned and had successfully hit her target weight of 89 lbs. “Can you play some Lady Gaga?” She over-pronounced “Gaga” like “Gaah-Gaah”.

I explained to her that the bride has specifically requested certain types of music, and that Lady Gaah-Gaah was not on the list of requests. She tortured for me for a good 15 minutes, going through every possible combination of, “are you SURE she SPECIFICALLY requested that you NOT play THAT music, or was it that she just requested THOSE songs but didn’t CARE whether or not you played any Lady Gaah-Gaah?”

On and on, she went, her super-thin, tanned arms emphasizing each point she simply HAD to make, completely determined to tear me down and reduce me to a quivering mass of “YES! WE WILL PLAY YOUR LADY GAAH-GAAH!”

I politely suggested she talk to the band leader and attempted to go about my business. An older woman that had been standing next to her was eyeing me. She was dressed in a long gold and black caftan-like dress, the requisite pearls strung neatly around her neck, and a big, velvet black bow in her hair. Yes, she was clearly on the verge of 70 years old and was wearing a BOW. IN HER HAIR.  Her face was a little lopsided; one eye was a little more closed than the other, the false eyelash clinging to that eye with all its might. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair, despite the bow and neatly cut bob, was a little disheveled. She pointed at my dress, “YOU. I liiike your duhresh!”  Whoa, Nelly, easy on the Scotch.

I looked down at my dress and smoothed down the skirt. “Thank you!”

"Why, I jess wanna unzip you! POOFSH!” She motioned unzipping a zipper, her hand sloppily slicing the air.

<insert crickets here>

After gathering her wits about her, Skinny Arms scoffed in disbelief. At first I thought maybe she was about jump to my defense and scold her for being so rude. Instead, she said, her voice dripping with contempt, “Why on earth would you want to do that? And besides…” she continued, her eyes rolling, “that dress is TOTALLY inappropriate for a country club!” She waved her hand at me, as if to dismiss me, and turned on her appropriate heel and walked out. Ol’ Drunk Bow Lady zigzagged after her.

There had been another woman standing with them. Her face was beet red, and she pulled the shawl draped around her shoulders closer to her body. “I am SO sorry!” she whispered at me. And then, she too slunk out, leaving me alone in the restroom.

I looked at myself in the mirror and studied my frizzy humidity hair for a moment. I dabbed some gloss onto my lips and flipped my hair off my shoulders, straightening them proudly. Then I turned on my hooker heels and walked back out into the sea of pearls.

Losing It

by Patti


The other morning I sat in my car at the bus stop putting on my makeup (because yes, I'm one of those get-ready-in-the-car people) while I waited for the bus to pick up S.  As the bus pulled up to take the kids to prison school, my neighbor tapped on my window. I rolled it down to greet her, and she quickly popped her head in. “Sam is being a little shit.” Sam is her soon-to-be-7-year old. “It took everything in my power not to wring his neck this morning.” Then she pulled her head out and cheerfully waved goodbye to Sam and his sister as they boarded the bus.

Her words stayed in my car, bouncing off the windows and dashboard. It was as if my car had been her confession booth; she purged herself and then was able to go on with her morning without totally losing it.

Have you ever seen that Us Weekly magazine section where they feature celebrities doing mundane things like the rest of us peasants? “Stars! They’re Just Like Us!” Well, that is how I felt this morning. You see, this neighbor, who is also a friend, has always come across to me as one of those super patient, non-screaming mothers. You know: the ones who apply psychology and wisdom to every aspect of their children’s behavior; they ‘get’ them in the ways that us screamy mothers do not; they are kind and calm and makes cookies and do crafts. But guess what? THEY SNAP, TOO.

Years ago, when Cathy and I were taking our daughters to the ballet studio where we first met, there was a mom there that was always waiting ever-so-quietly-and-patiently for her daughter to finish class. There she would sit, knitting whimsical little scarves, smiling and nodding as the rest of us more, uh, “exuberant” moms yammered the hour away, sharing stories of the total exorcist moments* we had just had prior to coming to class, feeling frazzled and pissed off because of what might have just transpired right before walking in the door of the studio. Then when the kids would come out of class, we would once again become a stressed out jumble of "Get your coat! Get dressed! Don’t forget your ballet shoes!” And this woman? Would just wait patiently, her daughter’s coat draped neatly over her arm; she seemed so understanding of the fact that her daughter needed a few minutes to bounce around before getting ready to go. She was so serene; so… perfect in her motherhood. One day I finally just asked her: “You are just so peaceful as a mom. How do you DO it?”

She actually laughed. Laughed out loud. And looked a little maniacal when doing so. She put down the whimsical scarf she was knitting and said, “Are you KIDDING? I yell all the time!”

Her words were like a balm, but I had a hard time believing her. Unless she was this completely psychotic freak with a split personality, how on EARTH could she go from smiling and knitting to spitting and screaming?

How?

Oh, EASILY. The longer I am a mother and the more mothers I meet, the more clear it is to me: Once that kid comes into your life, you DO develop a split personality. As I have said before, you can go from sheer joy and adoration one minute, to veins popping out of your neck the next, and then right back to sniffing the crook of your kid’s neck because MY GOD they are just so damned delicious.

It is a universal thing, this ability to Lose It. Being a mother is the hardest thing ever without question hands down no two ways about it the end. And whether you have a master’s degree in serenity or are of the more fiery variety; either way: if you are a mother, you will lose it. The best thing we can do for one another as mothers is to admit it. Out loud. And then hug each other so we can then hug our kids with the confidence that losing it once in a while? It’s okay. They’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. All of us, together.

*see Glassary

Holiday Overload

by Cathy

The other day (September 29th to be exact) I got off the bus on my way home from work, happy that it was my last workday of the week and that the sun was finally shining after a week of rain and gloomy skies. With a spring in my step, I rounded the corner leading to my block and suddenly stopped in my tracks when I saw this:

It took me a while to process what I was seeing. "What the...wait a minute...what's the date?"

This is how far removed I am from Halloween right now, maybe because, um, I don't know, it's more than a month away? Yes, I've seen the costumes at Costco and Target that hit the shelves in early September but I just scoffed in disgust as I passed them by. "It's waaaaaaay too early," I mumbled to myself then as I did on this day. I stood and observed the elaborate scene before me and imagined the hours of planning, details, storing, designing, purchasing and decorating that went into a creating a scene like this. I'm not this organized with the essentials in my house and I barely have enough room for said essentials in my house, let alone for holiday decorations of this size and quantity.

But I didn't expect anything less from these guys. You see, this is our neighorhood Holiday Hoarding House. You know, every neighborhood has one: the house that has 53,724 pieces of decoration for every holiday out there, and all of these thousands of pieces are presented on their lawns, porches, decks, fences and even sidewalks ALL at the same time. Or they could be the ones with the biggest, gaudiest decorations like inflatible Frosty the Snowmen that end up 'melting' and lifeless on crowded lawns. These are the people with turkey shaped flags for Thanksgiving and bunny planters for Easter. These are the people with heart-shaped rope lighting in their windows for Valentine's day and life-size leprechaun cut-outs on St. Patrick's day. The Holiday Hoarding Houses.

Why is everyone is such a friggin hurry to get on to the next holiday? Doesn't time fly fast enough already that I need to buy my kid's Halloween costume the same week I buy back to school supplies? Must I be subjected to viewing these decorations more than a month in advance of the actual holiday and worse, for quite some time after the holiday has passed?

Is this a trick? Cuz it ain't no treat.

Why Is It That...

by Cathy


...I am the last one to go to bed at night and the first one up in the morning?

...when people in my house are looking for something in a cabinet/closet/drawer/laundry basket, they a) can't find it even if it's staring them right in the face and b) must take everything out in order to find that one thing and then LEAVE it all on the counter/floor/dresser???


...they put their dirty clothes ON TOP of the hamper, but not IN it?


...they all move at a snail's pace and I am usually the one ready and waiting at the door, tapping my foot impatiently, hyperventilating and pointing at the clock?


...laundry and dishes in my house multiply like Gremlins? And how fitting...didn't Gremlins multiply when they came in contact with water? Am I totally aging myself for bringing up Gremlins?


...no matter where I step, whatever teeny, tiny, obscure spot under a bed/chair/couch/any corner of my house, I will inevitably step on something - food crumbs, spilled liquid, petrified cheerios, or sharp/noisy toys?



...no one hears what I am saying or does what I ask unless - I scream it? Yeah, I'm Greek and this is how we normally talk, but seriously? Why does my voice have to go to DEFCON 1 so I can be heard?


...a trip to Target with the kids turns into a day at Disneyland? "I want pizza" then elicits "I have to go kaka" and before I know it, I have spent an hour and a half there and bought nothing. In fact, I even forgot why I went.


...there are four of us living in the house and there is only ONE person keeping up after everyone? This must violate some type of labor law somewhere.

...everyone else's house is soooo much better than our solitary confinement of a house. "But mom, they have a basement! They have an attic! They have a cat AND a dog! They have a Wii!!"

...I can never run out of things to say that begin with, 'Why Is It That?' Stay tuned...more to come as life hands them to me.

Traffic Violation

by Patti

The other morning I went to Panera to get a Power Sandwich.  Good Fortune was shining down upon me, because streamers and confetti and balloons fell from the ceiling and I won a free coffee! Okay, so the streamers, confetti and balloons were in my head, not on it, but still. Yay! Free!

So as I was waiting for my Power Sandwich to be made, I made my way to the coffee area to fill up my cup. This particular Panera is always teeming with retired folk. They have their own tables that others know better than to occupy, and they sit there for hours, bantering and neatly eating their pastries with forks and knives (unlike me, who just stuffs directly from fist to mouth).  Because of the Retired Folk quotient, this Panera is always jam-packed. The coffee station was particularly crowded this morning, so after I poured in my milk, I quickly shoved the coffee into the microwave to reheat it (because: Pet peeve! Why do restaurants always serve cold milk and cream to put in coffee? How does this make sense?), and moved out of the way so the Retired Folk could pour their java. I was impressed with how smoothly the line seemed to flow, despite the traffic. One oldster with a bandaged-up nose seemed to be the Director of Traffic, making sure there were no jams or accidents.

The microwave “dinged!” and I scooted in to get my coffee. “Excuse me,” I said to the Director of Traffic. He looked… a little annoyed. But he scooted just slightly to the right so I could maneuver my way in. At that moment, another older woman appeared from the left, her plated pastry and empty cup in her hands. She scooted into the line and started pouring her coffee, and CLEARLY she was violating the rules, because she was going AGAINST THE TRAFFIC.

This apparently freaked out the Director of Traffic. He cleared his throat in protest and quickly scooted around me, another violator who was cutting into the traffic. “Oh boy.” He shook his head quickly at the woman, frustrated. ”You are messing up our line. You see, we always pour the cream first,” he signaled to the pitchers of cream to his right, “and THEN we pour the coffee.” He signaled to the left. “It’s better to pour the cream first; that way the coffee doesn’t splash.” The woman looked up at him and then down the line, assessing the damage she had just caused with her thoughtlessness.

"Oh my,” she said, apologetically. “I didn’t realize.”

Seeing that she was appropriately remorseful, he relaxed a little. He rubbed his nose and winced, apparently forgetting it was bandaged. I wondered if he had gotten into a coffee line traffic altercation earlier in the week. “Oh, now, that’s alright.” Feeling momentarily friendly, he asked, “So, how’s your husband?” 

He knew her?

“Oh, he’s alright. It’s those bunions.”

Yeah, I’d heard enough. I pressed down the lid on my coffee, and the Director of Traffic, suddenly snapped out of his friendliness, seemed to remember that I was holding up the line. “Coffee not warm enough?”
“It’s fine; it’s just that the cream is cold and it makes the coffee cold, so…” I felt like I was trying to talk my way out of a ticket.

As he considered my answer, weighing whether or not my excuse for cutting off the traffic to unlawfully microwave my coffee was a valid one, I looked around at all the Retired Folk eating their pastries with forks and knives, cheerfully chatting about their surgeries and pills and aching hips. Then I looked back at the Director of Traffic, who was already eagle-eyeing another violation in progress. Seeing the opportunity to make a clean getaway, I sped off, coffee in hand, breaking every traffic rule along the way.