Audiobook Review-Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara KingsolverClick on Elaine's Reading Review Link at Right
Audiobook Review-Animal, Vegetable, Miracle
Audiobook Review-Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver
Book Review- The Piano Teacher
Here's an experiment-I'm always talking with friends about books I've read, so I've added a link to a separate blog (http://www.scratchpaperbooks.blogspot.com/) for reviews of books, stories, or other interesting material I've read. I hope you will leave your own comments about the books, and suggest other interesting reading for the rest of us.
I read this debut novel straight through in a couple of days, trying to finish it before the author’s lecture at the DMA yesterday afternoon. The novel tells the story of Will Truesdale and the two women who are in love with him; one in 1941 as the Japanese invade Hong Kong and the other 11 years later as the city rebuilds. Though there are a few gaps in the plot which require the reader to fill in the blanks, it is a well-written historical novel with interesting characters and unique cultural insights about a time and place which hasn’t previously gotten much print attention.
The Christmas Newsletter of the Decade
December 2009—It’s that time of year when the ubiquitous Christmas Newsletter makes its welcome, and sometimes not-so-welcome, appearance in mailboxes and inboxes. Face it, some of us just don’t have that much interesting to say from year to year, or at least nothing that’s interesting to anyone but ourselves and our mothers. But now I find myself at the end of a decade, and realize that maybe, if I comb ten years’ accumulated living, I can find something worth sharing.
So much has happened since December 1999 that I hardly know where to begin. I distinctly remember where I was then—where I worked, what car I drove, where I lived; and I can easily recount those same details today, though almost every answer has changed in a way that would have been incomprehensible to me at that time. But the really big question is not where I am now, but rather: How did I make it from being an accountant whose baby was in kindergarten, with a new puppy, and driving carpool in a minivan to writing this letter as a graying grad student with one kid (sort of) out of the house, one really old dog, and still no red convertible? About the only thing that’s the same as in ’99 is Ted. Well, he’s mostly the same, just a little grayer like me, and thank goodness he’s still here. We were married in 1989, so I guess that means 2010 will start our third decade together. That alone is pretty amazing to think about.
So what has happened during the last ten years? It’s tough, but all I can do is try to list ten of the most memorable happenings—events that have had a lasting impact on our family life. They’re listed chronologically, and because I’m getting old, the dates are mostly approximate. The list is purely subjective and purely my own—if you asked anyone else around my house, I’m sure they would tell a completely different story.
1. Summer 1999 - Patch. Though technically outside the time parameters of this list, not much has made a bigger difference in our family’s life than adopting this neurotic dog, so I must include him. Alternately lovable and maddening, he has made us laugh, cry, and argue with each other and our neighbors. At 10+, he’s finally mellowed a bit and is definitely passing through the twilight of his life. I know he won’t be around for the next decade’s newsletter, and though I hate to say it, I know I’m going to miss him when he’s gone.
2. Jan 2000 - My only (paying) job this century—AIA Dallas. Too many stories to include here, but AIA colored nearly everything we did for over nine years. Along the way, I took a turn at almost every task in the office, and Ted volunteered for just about every leadership position available. The kids even helped in the office and at events. For better and worse, AIA was always there.
3. Aug 2003 - Both Alex and Sophie changed campuses to participate in RISD’s Magnet Program. This was possibly the change that has had the biggest effect on us all. Both kids blossomed in their new schools and discovered friends and interests that I am sure will be beneficial to them for the rest of their lives. Sophie began to actively develop the artistic and creative skills that make her the unique and talented person she is today, and Alex found a meaningful outlet for his interest in all things scientific, mathematical, and mechanical.
4. Sept 2003 - Ted and his friend Paul left their old firm to become entrepreneurs. In business for only 10 (count ‘em, 10!) days, they sent the computers back to Dell and both went to work for Gensler Dallas. In hindsight, it was probably the best thing for all concerned, considering health insurance and all, but I sure didn’t see it that way at the time…. In the words of Forrest Gump, “That’s all I have to say about that.”
5. Spring 2004 - With the kids in new schools and Ted’s new job, we packed up and moved north of I-635. After nine years in Lake Highlands it was a big step, and we even changed churches. Many of our friends were not happy, and some have never forgiven us. The neighbors mentioned in Item 1 of this list were not, however, sorry to see us, and Patch, go.
6. Fall 2004 - Attended the dinner party that changed my life, where I chatted with a woman who suggested I might enjoy a non-credit literature class at SMU. She said there was no homework, and the cost was reasonable. That is SMU’s plan: draw you in with an easy, inexpensive class, offer to let you audit a real class at a big discount, and then reel you in like a fish. In 2006 I signed on for the Master of Liberal Arts degree, which, at one class per semester would take about six years to complete and then likely wouldn’t even qualify me for a new job. Insane, I know. But I told Ted that this counted as my official midlife crisis and was definitely cheaper than a Corvette. To his credit, he went along with my madness, and he and the kids have been my unfailing cheerleaders through countless classes, papers, and projects. Graduation is on the horizon in May 2010.
7. Spring 2007 - Sensing, we now know correctly, that the North Dallas housing market was just about to boil over, we listed and sold the Glenhurst Drive house in 12 days, and then had to find a place to move. Not surprisingly, chaos ensued. Family harmony cost, among other things, one new flat-screen TV for Ted and laptops for each of the kids, but the natives were at last temporarily calmed. Not quite three years later, Ted and I are already thinking about the next (empty-nester) house. What is wrong with us?
8. June 2008 - Oh my God, what a month. On June 3, my dad had emergency quintuple bypass surgery. Very serious, but he survived, and is thankfully doing well now. On June 11, my nephew Lonnie, aged 17 and born the same day as Alex, died unexpectedly. And on June 18, our dear friend Gerri lost her battle with cancer. May we, and all our family and friends, never have another month like that one.
9. Spring 2009 - Alex achieved the perfect “trifecta” and made his old Mom and Dad the proudest we’ve ever been, which is saying a great deal indeed! With Alex as co-captain and driver, his robotics team won a (repeat) national title at the Battlebots competition--it was like he was the star quarterback at the Super Bowl as far as we were concerned; he graduated in the Top 10 of his high school class and got a full scholarship to go with it; and…he stood on stage, alone, in front of hundreds of people and performed a beautiful solo during his final school choir concert. All fantastic accomplishments, but the solo was the one that made me cry the most. I’ll never forget it.
10. Summer 2009 - Freshly unemployed (by choice), I enrolled in a writing class as part of my SMU program. Going in, I wondered if I even had a story to tell, but the experience has been like stepping through a door and into a world I never even knew existed. Since then I’ve started a blog, gotten published in the Dallas Morning News, and even begun a novel. Now if I could just get someone to pay me to write…
So there you have it—ten big things that have shaped the lives of the Kollaja family over the past decade. There were obviously many more, but I had to choose from what I can still remember. Really, I know that not many people care how smart and talented and good-looking my kids are except me and Ted (and maybe their grandparents) or where we went on our family vacations. Those things are interesting, and fun (or maybe not so fun), and they have a time and a place to be shared. But looking back, those aren’t the really important things. It’s the decisions we make and the way we live day-in-and-day-out, that tell who we really are. I’m thinking about what I want the list I’ll make in December 2019 to look like, and I hope it’s as satisfying to me as this one. I am sure there will be new things to report that I can’t even imagine today. Who knows, I might be a famous author or have a Ph.D. by then, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll have that red convertible too.
Wishing you and yours a happy, healthy 2010 and beyond!
It's All About The Outfit
Some day, hopefully in about ten years give or take, my only daughter will decide to marry a wonderful, kind (maybe even rich!) man. I will be thrilled and will cry at the thought of my little girl walking down the aisle. It’s too bad I won’t be there to see it, because I know she will be a beautiful bride. No, I don’t have some dread disease that will take me away before the blissful day; it’s just that I plan to offer her a substantial sum of money to run away and tie the knot in some exotic locale, far from my prying eyes. I’m sure that it will be worth every penny and will add years to our loving relationship.
Every fall we repeat the same routine. As soon as Sophie’s birthday festivities are completed mid- September, she starts planning her costume for Halloween. When she was little, things were easy; we just went to Toys-R-Us and bought a glittery costume, which was worn in dress-up play around the house until the big day. No tears, no second-guessing. Lately, no such luck.
For teenagers, Halloween costumes must be original and they must be unique; but never, never, should the costume require others to guess your creative intentions or for that matter, encourage them to even look at you. The costume must be instantly recognizable, yet completely different from anything that anyone else in the neighborhood might be wearing. If it’s a duplicate, that's bad; but if it makes anyone actually notice you, that is infinitely worse. The dichotomy of these two lines of reasoning (?) makes me want to scream.
Two weeks ago, Sophie decided to attend a Halloween party as singer Amy Winehouse, with her friend and sidekick as Britney Spears. Think of it as North-South White Trash night. It sounded like a funny idea which wouldn’t cost much and could be accomplished with a few clothing items already on hand, plus a can of Red Bull for Amy and some big curlers for Brit’s hair. But that idea was abandoned for some mysterious reason, and others were bandied about. Finally, at T-minus-7 days, the decision was made to go as either Galinda (from the musical Wicked), or Barbie. Either one would require some class of sparkly, pink outfit. Little girls never really grow up, do they?
In pursuit of the perfect, inexpensive, Galinda/Barbie dress, we drove to the Goodwill store. This is a sad, sad place, and proves that the slow economy has taken its toll on the poor in our land. Sophie reported that previous excursions to Goodwill for theater costumes had proved quite rewarding, with full racks of sequined gowns and ghastly bridesmaid castoffs. Today, nothing; only a few tired dresses hung on the racks. No ruby slippers or pink handbags were available at all.
So on to similar situations at the Salvation Army and the Genesis Thrift stores. Our last hope, three hours and forty-seven miles later, was Buffalo Exchange. There we found the perfect pink satin bubble dress and sparkly pink stiletto heels to turn a leggy blond into a life-sized Barbie. All she needed to complete the illusion was a spray tan and a guy to dress up as plastic-haired Ken.
I was ready and eager with my credit card. For $19.50 we could justify the afternoon of driving and searching and hang a “Mission Accomplished” banner across the back of the Honda. But no. At the last minute, Sophie decided that the Barbie concept was flawed and no one would understand. I stood helpless at the checkout; all I could do was offer money and support. The choice was hers.
We left the store empty handed and silent. It was a long ride home, and I’m not sure who was more upset. All I wanted was for her to be happy, but in hindsight maybe it’s just not that easy. With choice comes responsibility, and that’s a tough thing to accept, whether you’re 15 or 45.
Ted says I enabled her, and should have called off the chase at the second store. Maybe so, but I find it ironic that he has since agreed to help her find a cowboy hat and chaps for her most recent costume idea. We’ll see if he drags into the house later this afternoon looking frantically for the wine bottle. On second thought, maybe I won’t have to miss her wedding after all. I’ll just let Dad take her to pick out a dress.
Unlawful Restraint
God is going to smite me. This afternoon I stopped by a local consignment store, where I browsed for an outfit to wear to an upcoming formal party. As most of my friends know, I’m slowly succeeding in my weight loss effort, which makes the resale store a great option for something I might only wear once. But my recent dieting victories sometime make me overly optimistic about what size clothing I can actually fit into; this, I believe, was the root of today’s problem.
I found a lovely chiffon blouse which perfectly complemented a black skirt I already own. It still carried the original tags, so I could tell it had been quite expensive. But it must have been on the rack for some time, because even the second-hand price had been discounted. My bargain-loving genes perked up, and I decided to try it on. It was a size Medium.
The blouse had a zipper running down the center two-thirds of one side seam—a common feature of ladies’ eveningwear. Any woman who has worn a garment of this type knows very well that the zipper placement makes it much easier to put on than to take off, and that extracting oneself may require significant bodily contortions. This is true even if the piece in question fits you. Even then, it is advisable to have a good friend or husband nearby, just in case.
I stepped into the shop’s tiny dressing room and wiggled into the blouse. It was a little snug. I stepped out to look in the three-way mirror and, ever the optimist, determined that if I could lose another five pounds before the party, it might be a go.
Back in the fitting room, I tried to lift the blouse over my head. No luck. The top was too tight, and the room was so small that I couldn’t maneuver my arms sufficiently upward to work myself free. I tried tugging and twisting, and can only imagine the noises I made in the process. Still nothing. I was trapped.
The only other people in the shop were a teenage cashier and the male shop owner. I considered calling out for the girl to come help me, but ruled the idea out on the grounds that 1) she might possibly know one of my kids, and 2) she would be even more embarrassed than me if she had to help rescue me from the blouse. The man was totally out of the question. I was wearing a hot-pink bra.
Now sometimes good people have to make tough choices, and at that moment I honestly felt I had few options. I could have walked up to the cashier wearing the blouse, paid for it, and cut it off when I got home, but I just couldn’t bear the shame. So I grabbed the fabric and ripped it open at both ends of the zipper. It tore pretty easily, but that was probably my adrenaline at work. I’ve heard of people performing all manner of amazing feats in traumatic situations such as this.
Too mortified to admit my shameful secret, I replaced the blouse on the hanger with the torn seam carefully camouflaged and smuggled it back onto the rack between the other items I had brought into the dressing room. I quietly ducked out the door as another customer was coming in. The phrase “banned for life” flitted through my mind.
When I sheepishly shared this tale with Ted after dinner, his only response was, “Do you make this stuff up?” Sadly, no. I only wish I had that much imagination.
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Epilogue: After an evening of soul-searching, I returned the next day and purchased the ruined blouse, paying in cash. I did not confess my crime.
Searching for Poe-Now That’s Scary
One weekend too early for the re-enactment of Poe’s funeral and other “official” events, we set off on a self-guided tour, with info gleaned from the internet and guided by the schizophrenic GPS unit in our rental car. First stop was the Annabel Lee Tavern (named for the sorrowful, last poem Poe wrote before his death at age 40) where we planned to have lunch. When we arrived, we discovered it was more of a bar than a restaurant and didn’t open till evening. The proprietor was washing down the sidewalk with bleach-not an auspicious sign. Sophie was too miffed to even let us take her picture out front.
We moved on to the Poe Museum, located in the actual house where Poe lived with his aunt and wife (he married his 13 year old cousin--more weirdness). As we approached the house, the neighborhood became increasingly ominous, and not in a gothic way. Madame GPS kept changing her mind mid-street, as if she weren’t sure we really needed to go there at all. To our chagrin, we found ourselves in The Projects--the Baltimore, Murder-Capital-of-the-US Projects—and locked the car’s doors. Sophie asked why Poe had lived in such a bad part of town.
Across from Poe’s tiny, shuttered row house, a security guard sat barricaded in his truck. As we slowly passed, he motioned for us to roll down the window. He called out,“Looking for the Poe house?” I can’t imagine how he guessed. We didn’t want to leave the car, and all our luggage, unattended even long enough to go see if the place was open.
Finally, we tried to find the Poe gravesite. The address was even deeper in the ‘hood than the Museum, so we (wisely, I believe) abandoned our plan for the macabre photo op next to Poe’s tombstone. We feared that even if we didn’t lose our lives in that cemetery, we might likely lose our wallets and cellphones, or worse, the car.
Four hours after we began the Poe pilgrimage, we ended up at the place we didn’t even intend to go that day: The Baltimore Museum of Art. Among the Matisses and Picassos, we were relieved to find a temporary exhibit of Poe illustrations by famous artists. It wasn’t the tour we had expected, but at that point, it had to do. Sophie didn’t protest. One word sums up my intentions regarding future plans for a Poe tour, and Baltimore in general: Nevermore.
Revenge of the Yearbook
From my earliest school days, I recall my teacher’s threat whenever any infraction of rules, large or small, was committed: “This will go in your PERMANENT RECORD!” As a young child, I was cowed by the ominous pronouncement, but as I got older and wiser, I began to dismiss the idea of an all-encompassing history as a mere dusty file hidden in the school’s basement, forgotten and harmless.
But now I understand all too well that I should have paid more attention to the somber prophecy of Mrs. Geisen—who terrified me with her size 12 orthopedic shoes and Far Side hair bun. I am sure even she could not have realized the true portent of her threat and the culmination of the “Permanent Record” scenario. It’s Facebook.
Early this morning, among the usual updates in my in-box, I found an unnerving post: a horrifying pseudo-professional portrait of myself at age 16, pre-orthodontics, with a then-boyfriend sporting Napoleon Dynamite hair. My own long-forgotten copy of this image was destroyed eons ago, and I don’t even recall the circumstance of its origin. I was mortified to find this reminder of my ugly-duckling, bad-judgment-in-romance self haunting me from the screen of my laptop.
The first order of business was to get the ghastly likeness off my Facebook page before anyone else could see it. I spent precious minutes Googling the correct incantation to rid myself of the terrible thing, all the while panic-stricken that someone I know now (read: my own children) might stumble upon it and ridicule me mercilessly.
The source of this embarrassing surprise was a former classmate, whom I had recently befriended on Facebook, after our mothers had visited together in our hometown. I was reluctant to re-establish contact with him, as I’ve spent nearly 30 years distancing myself from the crushing humiliation of high school. Like a victim in the witness protection program, I’ve been hiding behind my married name in a series of populous cities for most of my adult life. But nostalgia got the better of me, and I opened the door to my old life just a crack.
I soon realized that resurfacing may not have been my best idea. Several other classmates saw my name on his list and sent me friend requests. Most I just ignored. But some had been close enough to require a positive response, though their status updates proved we now share few, if any, common views. So I just hid their posts. Out of sight, out of mind.
Then these friends began to tag me in old yearbook pictures. Aside from the laughable 80’s hair and fashion, I wasn’t embarrassed enough to protest. At least I was thin in those days. But now that an unwelcome old boyfriend has started digitizing his ancient photo album and sharing it indiscriminately, I’ve had enough. It’s disconcerting to think that someone would even keep a memento like that for so many years, much less feel the need to display it publicly.
So now I’m back on the lam from my past, and my “Permanent Record”, having “un-friended” the whole lot from the class of ’82. My daughter tells me that they won’t be notified that I’ve cut them off, so I’ve got a good head start. But if you’re reading this and happen to have incriminating photos of me in disco clothes and big hair, please contact me first before you post them for the world, and my teenagers, to see. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.
Mother of the Homecoming Date
The first question on my mind is The Mum. Who buys it, and how extravagant should it be? Mums are a very important part of the Homecoming scene, and big business for our school’s PTA. Mum Moms have been toiling for months cutting ribbon and assembling the elaborate corsages that both girls (and boys!) wear to the big game. Friends who grew up in other areas of the country seem perplexed by the hugely beribboned mum; I take it from their attitudes that our custom is a peculiarly Texan affair. I wasn’t previously aware of the cultural disparity, and thought all high school girls everywhere spent Homecoming day wearing corsages that make them resemble a Kentucky Derby winner. But what I personally find unusual is the trend in large armband corsages, complete with ribbons and teddy bears, for the guys. When I was in high school, a young man would rather have been boiled in oil than alight from his pickup truck sporting such an accessory. Obviously, times have changed.
Then, there’s The Homecoming Dress. Fortunately for me, this particular detail was settled before I even knew it was an issue; I was thus saved much wailing and gnashing of teeth during hours of fruitless shopping at Northpark. My daughter found the “perfect” dress and shoes during the summer and bought them with an optimistic eye toward the future. When she announced that the outfit was for Homecoming, I was skeptical. “Do Freshmen go to the Homecoming dance? “ I asked. She accused me of doubting her ability to land a date. But truly, I never doubted her success for a minute (her dating prospects are what keep me awake nights) and attributed my confusion to a distant memory, from the dark ages of my own high school years, that only Juniors and Seniors attend the dance. Many, many things seem to start earlier now, and I clearly still have some distance to travel in catching up with the times.
Finally, there’s The Pre-Dance Photo Op. Previously, I’ve seen caravans of cars lined up at neighbors’ homes around this time of year and asked myself, “Who died?” Nobody, fortunately. The traffic jam was just the dance attendees, along with their parents, gathering at one photogenic house to snap dozens of pictures in finery they’ll never wear again, with dates they may not even be talking to next week. This year, by some mysterious lottery, we have been designated as photo hosts. While I’m flattered that my home has been deemed worthy of the honor, I’m also a bit nervous. Of course I’ll have to clean the house, and perhaps even paint the front hall. But should I serve snacks to the other parents? Cocktails? Maybe I’ll have one now.
The only saving grace in this whole affair is that my daughter’s date can’t drive yet, so there’s no worry about her riding off alone with a boy who has borrowed his mom’s nice car for the big night. At this point, unsupervised car travel might actually put me over the edge. Instead, I assume we parents will be pressed into chauffer service for the game and dinner (another detail to work out), to the dance, and back home afterward. At least I hope that’s what everyone has in mind. I really, really don’t want to have to pitch in for a limo. Not yet. We all need to save something for the kids’ weddings, or at least for the Senior Prom.
Beware of The Lost Symbol
Literature lovers of the world, unite! There’s a threat forming on the horizon, and it’s coming our way this Tuesday, September 15th. Together we can defeat this menace! Yes, I’m talking about the new Dan Brown novel, The Lost Symbol.
Last week Amazon.com posted a banner ad on its home page promising to deliver my copy of the new book before breakfast on release day. The ad touted the manuscript as so secret that it was under lock and key at the publisher’s location and required “two separate people” to access the supply. Pray tell, what is the alternative to “two separate people?” Would it be two conjoined people or simply a staffer with a dual personality? Maybe Mr. Brown wrote the copy for the advertisement, too.
Last week Amazon.com posted a banner ad on its home page promising to deliver my copy of the new book before breakfast on release day. The ad touted the manuscript as so secret that it was under lock and key at the publisher’s location and required “two separate people” to access the supply. Pray tell, what is the alternative to “two separate people?” Would it be two conjoined people or simply a staffer with a dual personality? Maybe Mr. Brown wrote the copy for the advertisement, too.
I know, I’m just a neophyte writer who can barely give away 500 words to the local paper, and Dan Brown is a bestselling jillionaire with movie deals and everything. But come on, his books (and the movies too, with Tom Hanks and his bouffant hair) are laughable. Very profitably laughable for Mr. Brown, to be sure, but that doesn’t make them any better for the rest of us.
Back in the dark ages of 2003 I began hearing buzz about a new book called The Da Vinci Code. A pretty cool title, I admit, it jiggles the imagination of art lovers and mystery lovers alike. Critics were raving and friends were reading it while waiting in the carpool line, so lemming-like, I got a copy. At first, I was willing to go along with the wild yarn about the Knights of Templar and their secret antics. But then Mr. Brown veered down the path of Jesus’ supposed dalliance with Mary Magdalene and the whole "royal bloodline" business. At that point I began to feel the same way about The Da Vinci Code as I had felt about The Celestine Prophecy back in the 90’s. Both books seem just real enough to get people all riled up, debating whether the claptrap could actually be true. But in the end it’s all just pure hooey. I finished the book but had completely lost interest by then--I saw that red-haired brother coming a mile away.
As if I didn’t hate the book enough already, another nail was driven into the coffin when I visited Paris in 2006. According to our Parisian tour guide, Mr. Brown apparently didn’t even consult a map of the city while writing. In addition to offering educational tours of real French historical sites, Isabella also led tourist groups on The Da Vinci Code walks in which they tried, unsuccessfully, to retrace Robert Langdon’s path through Paris on the fateful night described in the story. The main problem with the attempted tour was that Brown’s geographical references are so disjointed that it is impossible to follow the alleged route. My own knowledge of Paris is limited, but from Isabella I understood the problem to be something like saying Langdon went from downtown Dallas to Oak Cliff via Plano. You just can’t get there from here.
Then came Angels & Demons, written first but (rightly in my opinion) not deemed publishable until The Da Vinci Code became such a hot item. Where do I start? Ludicrous does not even begin to describe this ‘prequel’ to Langdon’s Paris adventure. The story is so outrageous that after I read it I yearned for a good Danielle Steel classic to rid myself of the bad taste. I don’t remember the exact point at which I began to gnash my teeth in response to the dopey tale, but it may have been when Mr. Brown reveals the bad priest to be the love child of The Pope and a nun, conceived via artificial insemination. The love child part is not so bad--even celibates can fall in love--but artificial insemination? Give me a break. It all came apart for me though, when Robert Langdon falls out of the helicopter and into the river, not too worse for the wear and ready to go jump Vittoria’s bones. At that point I just wanted to toss the book into the trash, but had to restrain myself because it was a borrowed copy. As my grandmother used to say, that book just got “worser and worser.”
I’ll probably read Mr. Brown’s new offering, if only to give myself justification for complaint. I wouldn’t actually want a The Lost Symbol on my bookshelf where others might see it, so I’ll probably have to wait a while and sneak a library copy into the house. I’m sure that even then it will still be on the New York Times best-seller list. If this all sounds like sour grapes, maybe I’m guilty. But another part is just morbid fascination with bad pop-culture writing. Maybe if I read another amazingly awful tale, and get a big bottle of whisky to wash it down, I’ll start getting some ideas for my own outrageous pseudo-historical novel. Like the saying goes, “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” But if I do write something so crazy, I’ll definitely need a pen name. Suggestions, anyone?
Full Moon Over Spring Creek
It began as a typical Saturday morning errand to the dry cleaners. Before it was over, a possible crime had been committed and more than one person, including me, would end up looking mighty foolish.
A dry cleaning run is never complete without a visit to the adjacent donut shop, so my daughter waited in the car with her breakfast while I took the week’s laundry inside. It was morning rush hour and several people were in line ahead of me. While I waited my turn, a thirty-something guy came in and stood at the back of the line. He was tall, and was wearing gray gym shorts and a baseball cap. As I left the shop, I noticed his girlfriend waiting in a white sedan parked directly in front of the store’s windows.
A dry cleaning run is never complete without a visit to the adjacent donut shop, so my daughter waited in the car with her breakfast while I took the week’s laundry inside. It was morning rush hour and several people were in line ahead of me. While I waited my turn, a thirty-something guy came in and stood at the back of the line. He was tall, and was wearing gray gym shorts and a baseball cap. As I left the shop, I noticed his girlfriend waiting in a white sedan parked directly in front of the store’s windows.
Because of the donut stop, I had parked several spaces away from the cleaner’s door, so the tall man probably didn’t notice me, or my daughter, sitting in the car. I hadn’t driven away yet because I was trying unsuccessfully to bum an apple fritter from her. And that’s when I saw the crime.
The perpetrator was now alone in the shop, as the clerk had stepped to the back to retrieve his order. It all happened so fast, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The guy started to remove his shorts. My first thought was, “Why is he taking off his pants in the middle of the shop? He should have put them in the bag before he left home.” I’m pretty slow sometimes. But then I realized he wasn’t removing his pants to have them cleaned, but to share a little view of his, ahem, assets, with his watching girlfriend.
From my vantage point all I could see was a hairy white butt, and not a great one at that. But from the degree to which he lowered those shorts and the hip-wiggling moves he aimed at the window, I’m pretty sure the girlfriend, with her more direct sight-line, saw more. A great deal more.
I gasped aloud…and then, quite naturally I think, I pointed. My daughter, until this time interested only in the pastries, looked up. Her gaze followed my outstretched hand. Now we both had a view of the guy which I am certain he never intended.
If I had been alone, I might have just shaken my head and driven away. But with a teenager along, I felt I had to express the appropriate indignation at this affront upon our collective female dignity. So I honked the horn. The guy’s head snapped around and he saw me. Immediately a look of panic covered his face. He jerked up the shorts.
And then, God knows why, I got out of the car and stormed back into the shop. As I threw open the door, I practically screamed, “What do you think you’re doing? I’ve got a thirteen-year-old girl in the car!” By this time the clerk, and the store manager, had re-appeared with the clothes. They regarded me as if I were a lunatic, bursting into their store and shouting at another customer. At that point, I almost felt sorry for the guy. He turned red back to his ears and kept stammering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
We all stared at each other for a long, uneasy second, until I beat a hasty retreat, as I’m sure the fellow did too. I still go to the same cleaners weekly, and neither the clerk nor the manager has ever mentioned the incident.
But I’ve never seen Mr. Pants there again. He probably drives all the way to Plano to have his shirts done now. Afterward, I felt a bit silly reacting so strongly, but justified my behavior as a mother’s right to protect her child. All the wind went out of my sails, though, when I got back into the car and my daughter said, “Cool, Mom. I never would have looked if you hadn’t screamed and pointed.”
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