Respect Your Elders

The young man is standing at the head of the line at the post office when we arrive, and the older woman who got there just before us doesn’t seem to notice him. Both the employees are helping other customers, so we settle in to watch.

Sure enough, as soon as the employee behind the counter finishes up with her customer, the older lady steps up to the window and starts talking, without any consideration for the guy who was waiting in line so patiently. 

But when I try to point out her mistake, the young man who was already waiting catches my eye and waves me off, content to wait while the older woman does whatever she needs to do.

What Happened?

I read her a rough draft of a new poem, one about killing spotted lantern flies, which ends with me stomping on one and dragging my foot across the pavement (in iambic pentameter, no less!).

“Jesus,” she says when I’m finished. “That’s not something I need to hear right before bed.”

“You’re such a happy boy!” she exclaims in confusion.

WAIT

The line to get in outside the Co-op is longer than I expected for a Monday at three in the afternoon (I later realized that the federal holiday probably had something to do with it), so I queued up and waited my turn.

When I finally got to the front of the line, I watched the sign reading “NEXT MEMBER” very carefully, but when it flashed for me to go in, the guy sitting at the member check in counter, visible from where I was standing on the sidewalk, put up his hand with a look of irritation, indicating I should continue to wait.

“It’s flashing,” the guy behind me said impatiently.

“Yeah, I saw, but he said wait,” I told him with a shrug, indicating the guy at the counter, and we both watched him intently until he waved me in.

Taking a Bath With Murder

Katie fills the tub while I finish typing up labels for some new pieces she made today. I can hear the water running and her sing-song voice as she chats with one of the cats, who’s joined her in the bathroom to supervise. 

The running water goes quiet as she turns it off, followed by gentle sloshing as she lowers herself into the tub. Then finally I hear the tinny sound of voices describing murder from a podcast on her phone, echoing off the tiled walls in the bathroom, and I know she’s settled in.

Timing

I key in my access code on the pad by the elevator, but I see the elevator is full, so I figure I’ll take the next one. I nod to the occupants, the door slides shut, and I wait what I believe to be an appropriate amount of time before pressing the call button.

But instead, the door that had just closed slides open again, and I find myself locking eyes with the same people. We grin sheepishly at each other, and the door slides shut again.

What’s That Make Us?

After 20 years of living literally around the corner from it (16 years for me), Katie and I finally joined the Food Co-op, and today was our first day shopping there.

Honestly, it was kinda weird. The prices were cheap, and the produce was excellent, but nobody seemed particularly happy to be there, and a lot of people seemed downright UNhappy.

Later, when we sat talking about it, Katie said, “People who join hippy communes tend to be neurotic.”

Out Damned Spot

“Move very slowly,” Katie warns me as I stand up from the couch. 

“That cat,” she continues, pointing to the off-white loaf of fur crouched sullenly beneath the dining room table, “has been running around the apartment, dragging her butt on the carpet leaving streaks, so can you pick her up and help me clean her off?”

Afterwards:“Could you please put away the cheese in the kitchen?” she asks, washing her hands in the bathroom. “‘Cause I’m never going to be clean again.”