Losing Lunch

How on earth does anyone misplace a potato?  There must be a rabbit hole that collects car keys and shoes, now transitioning to potatoes.  Baked.  A baked potato meant to be lunch.  It's been missing for three days and I'm not sure what happens to an unwrapped tater--maybe it mummifies, hopefully; I do not want blue moldy hair running rampant through the school papers in the briefcase.  But I know it was put in with either the papers or into my purse; for to me it doesn't make sense to use a whole gaflunking lunchbox for one mid-size potato, I have enough to carry as it is.

I had zapped the potato the night before, tossing it into the fridge for next day lunch; when morning came, zoom zoom feed cats, zoom zoom get boots on, zoom zoom get keys, throw potato into purse, (yes, unwrapped, not even a paper towel; I'm in a crazy hurry to pick up Friend). Might have been in the briefcase, I forgot which, obviously because when lunchtime came and I looked, hoping for an intact potato not smooshed into the cell phone, there was nothing.  Nada.  No potato.  What?

Searched the briefcase, thrashing papers about; where has my lunch gone?  A room temp, plain baked potato is convenient, illicitly full of carbs, and is, well, a potato.  But it's a bit odd to carry a cooked potato that isn't contained, for it's now a loose criminal tuber and apparently on the lam.  Can I tell you how many times I checked each place, as if during the third investigation, the escaped potato would magically appear?  I knew I had brought it along, I knew I had launched it from five feet away into the open satchel.  But where the hell could it be?  I lost a potato.

Of course it worried me; I checked the car to see if it had rolled out, looked back in the fridge since maybe I imagined packing it for lunch; did it get buried in papers on my desk, did one of my kids think of the cool sound it would make when impacting a fourth grader's head?  How big are the cockroaches this year?  No potato was to be found.  Fwip.  Gone.  Poof.

Next day, I grabbed an apple to take and placed it into the briefcase; come lunchtime, it had disappeared as well.  I couldn't find the apple, and felt as if I were floating, one with the intra-dimensional universe where all molecules flow one into another and this apple had ascended into my being; I was already one with a Gala from Lynoaken Farms.  It made me dizzy to wonder where the hell it went, was the briefcase hungry?  Did the apple run off with the potato?  I did find a cough drop in the bottom of the case.

Now for the denouement.  After saving up lucky points with the class book club, I was able to get a small cube refrigerator which sits on the floor behind my desk, convenient for small things.  After three days, it occurred that maybe I should look and begorrah, there it was, sitting on a rack towards the back.  I hate when I put things where they should go, because that is when they are lost the most, and I prefer my food not cold so it didn't seem likely that it would be put into the fridge.   Fridge: 01, Susan: 00.  I ate the resurrected potato after thanking the lord that I wasn't quite off my rocker, yet.

The apple is still hiding out, but to cheer me up in the parking lot there were a dime, a penny, and then a folded up dollar like a mini-lottery.

Losing things makes me feel like an idiot; finding them creates an immense sigh of relief and a New Outlook.  Strangest items I have found: the corner of a $100 bill, a dead monkey, the shed skin of a tiny newt in a cold rivulet, completely perfect, completely inside out.  I dragged home the spine of a mostly rotted deer carcass to see how it fit together; it was just lying there by the road, I think I used rubber gloves and a hefty bag, boiled it clean in a banged up pot, museum-style.  Ice tongs, an empty grenade (that was found in school), a bottle that said "Mother's Only Rival" in raised glass, the skull of a woodchuck who suffered badly as it sometimes happens because their teeth continually grow and have to be worn down; if for some reason that doesn't happen, the tooth can eventually curl up through the roof of the mouth.   There was a Monarch butterfly who couldn't fly and so came home with us to be fed sugar water from a cotton ball the rest of the summer.  He lasted well over a month.  Finally, there was a neatly folded dollar bill on the pavement; upon opening there was a sugary white powder revealed inside, I am guessing cocaine?  Dunno; sprinkled it into the grass, wiped the bill on my jeans, and put it into my pocket.  I think I've told you enough about me.  Really. How about you?

No cloud cover tonight, the blackness of nighttime seems abyssal in spite of the lighted buildings of the city.  Before electricity changed our lives after sunset, it seems that people slept twice a night; first sleep lasted about 3 hours, there was a period of wakefulness, and finally, second sleep.  The whole night was closer to eleven hours long, compared to our accepted eight.  I rarely post links in this blog, but if you want further history, http://www.history.vt.edu/Ekirch/sleepcommentary.html.  I will not post any woodchuck skulls with curling teeth, you can look that up if you so desire.

Good night, good night; get to bed earlier than usual and see what it does for your day tomorrow.  If you wake mid-night, pick up a book, write down notes, get up and check on that Ben and Jerry's in the fridge.  Maybe you'll find my apple which is still in hiding, at least until I notice the hint of applesauce.  Take sleep seriously under piles of blankets, it is a good thing to do for yourself.  I shall be out on the path with my lamp, watching; two o'clock and all's well.

Watch Out for the Carpet

There are three points to be kept in mind when deciding upon the use of compassion, for as a conscious meditation, it is most useful after weighing consequences, and for whom.  Altruistically, it may benefit the originator more than the applicant; but this person in need, do they deserve your patience and complacency?  First, is it a conviction, a private crusade to extend patience to those who harm you or others?  Secondly, if assistance is given, is there  gratification for either party involved?  Thirdly, did it work in favor of remedy, or is it then something else, not called "compassion"?

It was as if an angel were sent to bend my arm behind my back, causing me to wonder how did I get into this nonsense which I already know because I opened my mouth with hope.  Please don't accuse me of aspersion, for everything turned out just fine and I learned that my friend is fearful but damn if I ever go through this again.  Oh, I know I will.  Probably.

If anything, I have patience.  Patience for change, patience for things to get better, patience for hoping that love will mend (Hallmark moment horse manure).  I can watch paint dry, the sheeting pattern and change of color on the wall: wow, that's a great color, and it's washable!  If wine is involved, I will talk to rocks.  More on that later, maybe.

I work with a person, an elderly lady who performs an essential job; she is wonderful, honest to god, her presence facilitates a closer relationship with my 29 children.  Don't faint, the teacher downstairs has 32.  She is a second pair of eyes, helps the students with their work, and can cajole some of the most difficult, emotionally disturbed situations into complacency.  But she has a temper like a banshee with a sore ass and expects treatment royale by any and all.

For example, we went for a Friday fish fry last spring at a favorite spot; the waitress was overloaded with tables and wasn't as attentive to niceties such as opening the napkin, unwrapping the water straw, or answering doublespeak questions that made no sense to me, either.  Amid dinner, I heard about "back in the day" "this is my money" "she don't know jackshit about customer service".   A box was later asked for, to wrap up leftovers.

Waitress: "Would you like me to take care of that for you?"

Guest: "I would not like you to touch my food.  You'd take it in the back and do something to it just to get back at me.  I'll take care of this myself."  The young woman took off like a gazelle.  She was mid-step, only four feet away when Guest threw down the fork and began yelling, "MISS!  MISS!!!" and in an aside to me, "She thinks she's going to get away with that, I'm going to make her wrap up my food."
Miss Gazelle wisely pretended to not hear and leapt into the safety of the veldt.

Guest then yelled at the nearest waitress taking an order at another table, "Why doesn't she come over, can't she hear me calling her?  What's the matter with these people?"

Me: "She'll be here once she's taken their order.  See?  Here she comes."

Guest: "Would you please go get our waitress?  I'd like her to wrap up my food."   Of course.  Except the poor young gazelle would not come out and a manager type came over with an explanation that the waitress was busy and that she could take care of this, wisely grabbing the plate before an objection could be registered.

"She's busy doing what?  She hardly paid attention to us, I could have needed something and not gotten it.  My time is valuable, don't put the potatoes in like that."

Before we left the table (thank you God), Guest hissed at me, "I know how you are, I know you're going to leave a tip.  Don't you dare leave a tip, she don't deserve one.  You're all soft-hearted, well I'm not.  Do not. Leave. A Tip."

I let Guest go ahead of me, especially since a nice fellow was holding the door open for her, which she enjoyed.  I hung back, as if the bowl of mints had become fascinating to me during which time I got change for a ten and asked the hostess to give our waitress a five.  Saints and cats, I heard 'what a great time it was, how wonderful, best fish fry in town, that girl' all the way home which was less than ten minutes.

Yesterday, I invited my friend to go to the thrift store with me, she loves the place and had been asking; oookay, but in my head I was not going to a public restaurant afterwards, because it was Friday and all I wanted was to go home and not amend social architectures.  29 children all day with one bloody nose, two stolen pencils, a brownie snuck into a desk with a five foot diameter of chocolate crumbs followed by it wasn't me baloney, and lesson plans due Monday.  Note: children lie.  Yes, your little princess, yes your good boy he doesn't do that at home darlings.  They lie while tears are running down their faces because they are shocked, shocked that you would question their integrity.  I was exhausted, and running low on patience yet pulled off the miracle of not slugging a 72 year old woman.

I can do thrift store, get there, shop, get out, home.  Except that Guest who is now Friend had an immense bag of open boxes with miscellaneous items that she needed to take to the post office to mail back to QVC.  She had tape and boxes mishmashed with merchandise flopping around in the giant bag; you're mailing this back?  Let's go over here and tape up the boxes.  She had return labels, notices, letters, torn receipts, and no pen.

"Oh no no no, he's going to do that."  He?  He who?  The postal worker at the counter.

"But they don't do that, they aren't allowed to package items for customers."

"Oh yes they do, they do that downtown, that's the post office I usually go to and they wrap up my packages for me."  Now, I know the two folks who work at the downtown branch and no way in hell are they allowed to box anything.  Turns out, Friend sits in the senior van while the driver goes in and mails whatever, and is most likely the Wrap This fairy.  Either she truly believes that the clerks do this, or she is giving me a line of horsecrap.  I know which.

I got her off to a side counter, giving her ample time to complain about the rugs being wrinkled and she could trip.  WATCH YOURSELF, she yelled to me, making sure I don't fall.  She gave me the tape and started shuffling papers, looking for her notes; I got one box taped.

"No no no, that's not what I want, THIS has got to go inside.  Let the young man do it, he'll know what  to put in."  Couldn't you have stopped me?  Okay, lets go to the counter and find out.  Maybe Friend has magic powers that  compel people to do as she wishes, like that kid in The Twilight Zone, where I think I have landed.  We wait a bit, are we in the right line?  Yes, there is only this one line, don't worry.  Unfortunately, the young, large man behind the counter has a face with bored, permanently raised eyebrows; I can tell he isn't interested in games.  I plan an escape route.

His eyebrows go higher when she dumps all her accoutrements onto his space.

"Good afternoon, sir.  Happy New Year.  I want to mail these items back to QVC, they need to be packaged up and I hope you can help me."

"What do you want?"

"I just want these items mailed back, I have all the paperwork and I brought my own tape."

"I cannot package these up for you ma'am, I have to take care of the people waiting in line.  You gotta do that yourself."

"I just want to send these back. Are you telling me you can't help me?  Let me show you."  Friend opens boxes, brings out stereo equipment, shoes, a ring, and mail clerk is exasperated.  I stand a foot away, knowing that nothing is happening until Friend gets some sort of acquiescence.

"I can't do that ma'am."

"WELL CAN'T YOU HELP ME PUT IT BACK IN THE BOX?  I'M A SENIOR AND COULD USE SOME HELP."  He puts it back in the box, and I grab everything and start moving towards the side counter, c'mon, Friend, we can do this over here.

"WATCH OUT FOR THE CARPET.  Don't you trip on it.  I know you'll fall.  That man knows nothing about his job.  He's too young to do this, no courtesy.  He's a lazy man!   Ought to be grateful to have that job.  Lazy, and I'm going to tell him."  Crap.  Distract her.

"You have the ring?  Does it go into this envelope?"  Yes, yes it does.  I want my money back, see, that's what this note says, that I want my money back.  They'll credit it to my account.

It took fifteen minutes to sort out papers, which was which, thank heavens she had the proper return labels but by this time I would have written anything on the box and mailed it to Latvia.

"I could do this if I had a pen."  Pen, here's a pen.  The tape shreds on the roll, and finding the beginning is a minor resurrection; I get the notes in the proper boxes, and start taping except Friend is helping me by holding down the flaps with her hands in the same spot where the tape should go.

"Okay! Let me get some tape up there.  Move your hand, kiddo."  The hand is moved, replaced, moved, replaced, flutters, and fingers end up getting taped to the box, my own.  There are three packages, and as each is readied, Friend is calming down.  She's happy.

"See?" she says, "I brought my own tape, I knew I'd need it.  We make a great team, gotta do things ourselves these days and we did it!"  Huzzah, thinks I, and load up; we wait briefly in line, and get the same young man.

"We're back," says Friend.

"Round Two," says the clerk.  I am very very glad she didn't hear that.  Very.  He's not smiling, I am, as if this is my day out with my neighbor friend, and he records each label, there is no charge.

"Nothing?  I don't have to pay nothing?"  Nope, that's taken care of, now we can go shopping.  She takes my arm, yells about the carpet some more, and I get her into the car.  She is singing my praises, and gets to the thrift shop where she finds a pair of slacks with a matching top.  At the exit, I see that she is three people ahead of me in line, and as is her custom, will sit and wait for me; she asks if there is an area to sit, the young lady smiles and points to the front.  I hear the clerk say, "I'm sorry, I should have...." and lose the rest of the sentence.  The girl's face changes to surprised dismay as Friend says something back to her that isn't especially nice, I have no idea what.  Why does she treat people, especially service people, horribly?

I imagine she is frightened by the world, thinking that she is going to be forgotten or overlooked.  Or is it entitlement? The embarrassment on my part isn't lessened, and am tired of rescue and repair, something I seem to do.  Does she notice?  I think so; has it remedied anything?  Nope, as far as I can tell.  I can't undo years of her being fussed over as the baby of her family, or the knowing she has experienced many tragedies.  I also realize, however, that taking her anywhere is a crapshoot, and my sense of humor is wearing sneakers, ready to follow Gazelle Girl into the veldt.

Oh quiet night, holy night, and locked doors.  Snow is said to be coming in great amounts this week, and I plan on zipping out in the morning to find tires that will keep my car going straight in the drifts.  To bed now, to wool blankets and cats, curled up into cat donuts.  Storms will rage whilst we huddle inside, wishing for the hand of some god to shield us from the wind.  You will be fine.  I promise.