As I was chalking up a sidewalk, a woman approached. I could tell she had something to say. She didn’t have a Karen name badge on but it was definitely her spirit animal.
“It’s a crime to use chalk on sidewalks,” she informed me. The tone of her voice was that of an indignant school marm from the 1800s.
I’m not proud that my sense of humor and the snark that overcame me. But I am giggling.
“The only real crime here is that you think those shoes go with those pants. As for the chalk, I will let children everywhere know that they are felons if they get out the sidewalk chalk.”
She snorted in disgust.
I wrote underneath my message and drawing: “Karen disapproves of this message.”
I will bet $100 she comes back in a few minutes and erases some or all of my beautiful artwork with her foot. Or perhaps her forked tongue.
Honestly, I’m glad she was snarky and mean. I get really tired of people being happy and tickled by me doing this.
Look what Marilyn and Larry sent me! I guess I know my new role and responsibility for today. I’m wondering if I should WEAR the cape and mask today? Tuesdays need a superhero. I’ll go find some miscreants as soon as I leave the apartment.
Thanks, Marilyn, I got a great laugh – and felt appreciated for this surprise gift.
“There is no finish line. Which makes me wish I’d brought toilet paper.” – The Internet
I haven’t been running much. Not even when chased. When I have, I’ve limited myself to one mile, usually at a ridiculous pace, or sprinting up stairs until I couldn’t feel my face. Weeks ago, I gave it everything I had in an attempt to run a sub-6 minute mile and missed by a few seconds. Today, because I’m stupid, I gave it one more shot: I thought for certain I had failed again. To my surprise, I finished in five minutes and forty-nine seconds. I’m glad – because it allows me to cross this nonsense off my list! I’m going back to running-walking. The good news is that new research reinforces what we already suspected: there is a ‘sweet spot’ for exercise. Beyond that point, it turns out that you actually reduce your life expectancy instead of increasing it. I’m pretty sure my life flashed in front of my eyes at about five minutes. Everything in moderation – even chocolate chip cookies or peanut cluster bites. But at least I can say I did it once as a 54-year old.
“Running your mouth doesn’t count as cardio.” But it should. I’d be a marathoner for sure. .
The scammer leaned against the brick facade of the inconvenience store as I pulled up. Luckily, someone distracted him as I exited my car. On the way out, though, I made the mistake of eye contact. As he began his elaborate and well-rehearsed story, I listened attentively.
“What do you need the money for?” I asked him, smiling.
“A room, as I said.” He paused.
“I’ll give you $50 for your headphones. Will that help?” His headphones were worth as much as two of my car payments.
He smiled broadly. “Okay, you got me there.”
I laughed. “I tell you what. IF you tell me an interesting story, I’ll give you all the cash I have, $8. Is that fair? Just make it a true story.”
He thought about it a second. “Ooh! That’s easy. For $8, I can tell you ten great stories.”
I leaned against the brick facade next to him. “Hit me, dude.”
Here’s what he told me:
“Back a few years ago, I was in Nashville to scam my way into the VIP area at a private concert. I managed to get inside, of course, insisting I was the sound engineer for the band. I’ve met Nelly, 50 Cent, and a few others doing that. After about an hour, a few of the entourage went to a private bar nearby. Everyone was doing drugs. Even the waitstaff. I like to smoke but I wouldn’t touch the stuff they were using. I’d grabbed at least twenty joints from the little case one of the entourage had and stuffed them in my pocket. After a few minutes, a couple of men entered the main room, and one of them shouted, “Police. Everyone stay put. You are all being detained.” I ducked down to the floor, hoping I hadn’t been seen. I crawled around the bar and crouched low. I pulled out a case of wine from underneath and quickly yanked a couple of bottles out and put them on the floor. I could hear the mayhem on the other side as people were frisked and handcuffed. One of the detectives walked around the bar and saw me there. I looked up at him and nodded, and kept pulling wine bottles out of the case. The detective assumed I must have worked for the bar as he nodded back and walked past me. After a few seconds of that, I stood up and lifted the case of wine to the bartop. Everyone was sitting at tables, most of them cuffed. I kept pulling bottles out and putting them on the bar. This went on for a few minutes. Because of the confusion, I then started putting full bottles of the good vodka, whiskey, and gin in the wine case. When I had it full, I waited for the detective who’d seen me on the floor to look in my direction. I pointed to the case and then toward the back storage area. The detective nodded. I picked up the case of liquor and headed through the storage area. There was a plainclothes cop at the back door. He assumed I had been waved through because he didn’t stop me as I strolled past with my stolen case of goods. I walked out of there, laughing. I sold the liquor for $250. I shared the joints with my friend who was in Nashville with me. We got so high we could barely walk.”
I laughed. “That is a good story!”
“I learned that if you act natural, a lot of times you’ll skate by. And be polite, no matter what. I got caught with an unbelievable amount of pot in Atlanta one time. Enough to smoke up an auditorium full of people. When he asked me what it was for, I told him the truth, that it was to get higher than a kite for about a month. It wasn’t true, no one could smoke THAT much pot in a month. But he laughed and told me to be more careful about driving around with that much at one time. “I get a bulk discount though,” I told him. I think he was just caught off guard by how nonchalant I was about it.”
“Here’s your $8. Thanks for the story.”
As I went to get into my car, he quipped, “Are you sure you don’t smoke? That car color screams “high as-f” to me.”
“You’re right. On the other hand, those shoes you have on bring up an entire litany of questions.”
He was surprised as he looked down at his shoes.
He laughed. “You got me.”
“Offer to tell a story for money. You might make a lot more money.” He nodded.
“My socks may not match, but my feet are always warm.” Maureen McCullough
As someone who turned down raises twice in my history with my company (during which one year we all took a 5% pay cut due to cutbacks), I’ve never complained about what I’m paid. Especially in the last 18 months, I have been even more grateful to my job overall, even though it drives me bonkers at times. The goings-on with Covid definitely tried my patience. But I do love my schedule and the flexibility my job affords. Some of my co-workers are actually not a total pain in the ass. Besides, they seem to tolerate ME well, which is a feat of both bravery and foolishness on their part.
In the last couple of years, the company had to adjust to market pressure and give the lower-end employees two pay bumps, many of whom finally went to $15 an hour. I now have 17 years with my employer. Given the number of shenanigans and stress I’ve often doled out to my managers, HR, compliance, legal, and just about everyone, it is a miracle that I’m still there. I’m a complete goof but sometimes people forget my background or my contradictory ideas about safety, employment law, and general do-the-right-thing beliefs. I’ve been lucky to be both vocal and humorous, even while doing a very physical job. I’m definitely not my job, but it does afford me the chance to be fickle and fiendish.
I have a minority opinion about seniority – and always have. While we can earn different benefits based on longevity, I’ve always believed that anyone doing my job should earn exactly what I do, regardless of tenure. It’s not exactly a popular opinion, I realize. It’s caused some hilarious team meetings and awkward moments. Not awkward for me; rather, for them. All of us are expendable and are only as valuable as our output and knowledge.
In general, I’d rather have more satisfied co-workers than a slightly higher wage. Since most of them SEEM to be working for money, it follows that more money should lead to better morale. Except for the assholes. There is no pleasing some people, as anyone who has thrown a dinner party knows.
I didn’t know what kind of raise I might get on this paycheck. I would have been grateful for any raise. When I checked my online paystub and did the simple math, I realized that I should not be doing even simple math without a calculator and probably a helmet.
My raise? 10%. That’s substantially larger than any I’ve ever received. I know that the raise was based on complex calculations, probably using a dartboard and while drinking shots at Art’s Place on College. But whatever the reason, I am grateful.
“The hardest arithmetic to master is that which enables us to count our blessings.” Eric Hoffer
So, as for the administrators who authorized the raise, I guess I need to nod in their direction, as much as it pains me. I prefer to snark at them!
I would write more, but I need to go spend this 10% on something vital to my life: notecards and PopChips.
“I will find you and I will hug you.” – Possibly Liam Neeson
Love, X
PS The picture is from this morning. I walked down the trail and listened to the birds. The squirrels scampered along the branches and knocked puffs of snow loose as they did so. It was as if I had the entire world to myself; no traffic, no passersby on the trail. Only the peeking sun, the flow of the creek, and my thoughts. It was sublime and beautiful. .
“Your past is just a story now,” she said, her voice booming with confidence. She saw the look of disbelief on my face and nodded. “Are you saying you’re incapable of turning the page and choosing different behavior? If that’s so, go ahead and surrender to your patterns. It’s over for you.”
I was a little stunned that she was advocating that I give up.
“Get a piece of your crazy chalk, X, go outside, and make a chalk outline of your body, as if you’ve fallen forever. Look at it. That’s what you’re going to leave behind if you don’t make different choices. You know that the number of obstacles that hit you is never going to be zero, so figure out how circumstances are not your actual problem. You are. You wanted clarity and hit-you-in-the-face commentary. There you have it.”
I nodded with an intent look on my face. She wasn’t saying anything I hadn’t heard before. The words, though, were incisive and harsh this time.
She continued. “I read your ‘reset’ promise. You said you’d give it a year. Do that. Every day, make a chalk outline and remind yourself visually that we all are going to end up with unfinished business. Get yours done already. You love to write? Do that. You want a connection that gives you presence and affection without qualification? Get that. If you can’t be successful, I doubt anyone who sees me can be.”
I laughed. “I wish you’d tell me how you REALLY feel.”
I pulled the piece of orange chalk out of my gray jacket pocket, holding it up. “I’ll get started when I leave, right in your parking lot. I hope no one gets the wrong idea.”
“There is no wrong idea. It will either be funny, surprising, or hurtful. You know that you can’t control other people’s filters. Stop trying. What was it you gave me? Like a mouthful of fire, who you are should be impossible to conceal. Your sense of humor is your secret weapon. Focus on that, X.”
After I left the office, I did what usually gives me a secret laugh. I knelt on the pavement and drew a rudimentary chalk outline of a body. I wrote “Yesterday” on the torso.
Somehow, I knew she would nod in approval at the small addition to my drawing.
Almost all of our lives are written in chalk. Entropy and time erase so much – but never the connections and moments we share as memories. Things are transitory, just as we are.
On the way home, I stopped and got nine balloons. I wrote a card that said, “Thank you for being you. -Anonymous.” And I tied them to someone’s car, someone I didn’t know. I laughed, knowing that whoever the car belonged to would find them and be filled with curiosity. And maybe a little glee. I gave them a story, maybe one that would linger forever in their heads.
There are days when coincidences flood my life. Because we are thinking animals, it’s easy to find a nexus and connections where there are none. Other days, the barrage is so consistent and overwhelming that I feel like I’m the titular character in a Richard Bach novel. I stop and pet a dog and look up to see that owner bundled in warm clothing is someone I once knew. That a new neighbor gives me a stack of t-shirts and one of them is a green Spongebob-inspired one. (That’s a more complicated story.) A stranger writes me on Ancestry to tell me that they read about one of their ancestors on my blog. A DM of words to tell me that something I wrote five years about my personal history gave them hope that anything can become a story and not a constant reminder of pain. Another to tell me they’d read about 400 of my blog posts and told me he didn’t realize that he could just write about anything he wanted to. Or that he could be honest about the things he was not proud of, a couple of which he shared with me. I got a quick peek at what my life would look like in a year. A succession of hugs, causing laughter and a little bit of merriment. Some hugs are built from scratch and others feel like comfort. I won’t detail all the coincidences, but it was a minor crescendo as the day progressed.
I hear the mockingbird, too, in my head. When I wrote this line, A small bird flew up to my feeder, singing as he ate absurdly large suet balls. My window blinds are open, of course, so that I can watch the world whiz by with ridiculous speed out on Gregg. My feeder is less than five feet away from me, directly in my line of sight. My cat Güino is laying on the extra-wide windowsill I installed, even though the air is chilly through the window. I hear him chirp in response to the small bird, though he doesn’t jump to nuzzle and nose at the window as I expect.
I went for a haircut today, too. I sat and joked with the duo of older barbers. I’m guessing they are unaccustomed to rapid-fire humor. Instead of telling my barber how to cut my hair, I asked him to cut mine as if he were doing “The Ugly Bruce Willis special.” I waited. “How the Jason Statham one where he looks like he lost his mind. Can you do that?” And then I relented and told him that my haircut was the easiest in the world. “#1 attachment and do the rest any damned way you’d like.” He laughed. “Well, I guess you’re right. That is the easiest.” When he was done, he started to hand me a mirror to examine the cut. “Are you kidding? Where’s your self-confidence?” He laughed again. “My Grandpa told me that you should never paint a burned house. Whatever happened here, it’s on me.”
As I left, I asked them where the special bottles of spray were. The older of the two said, “What spray are you talking about.” I smiled. “The one that really good-looking men use to keep the women at bay.” They paused and then cackled. “Oh, it’s not for me. It’s a gift for a friend!”
During my errands, I encountered a few more coincidences. At Peace at Home Shelter Thrift Store, at Harps, and even on the drive home. I felt like a special filter had been placed on my brain.
The brooch is one of several I made for my sister. I have a small collection of both meaningful ones – and lunacy-inspired ones, too.
I chose joy today, even though I had a couple of moments that were like running on a treadmill, blindfolded, and in reverse. But I felt myself insisting on pushing aside the indifference and negativity from the world.
Even as I write this, I know I’m going to have a couple of more coincidences happen. I can feel their scratches at the door of my life.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 