Thursday, April 14, 2016
The other day a man placed a hand on my forehead and asked another man named Jesus to take away my migraine pain. Did it work, he says, after the treatment. There was momentary relief, I reply, probably from the human caring. I continue to stand at the cafe counter. He remains by my side. Can you make my latte arrive faster, I ask. The other day a man poured water on my hands. He wants me to feel the power of a scrub laced with gold. Oh my god, I say, touching my softened skin. I'm Jewish, he says, we say O-M-GEE. He offers me a deal. Fifty dollars off the regular price for scrub and butter. I decline. Please send people to my shop, he says. The other day a woman runs around a lake. I've been wearing the wrong bra size all my life, she says. Her correct assessment plagues many. I hold back from chasing after her and giving my source for cups and measurements. Instead, I tend to my bosom and seek a refresher garment. What you bought before isn't here now says the woman who a few seasons ago wrapped a tape measure under my breasts. Buyers live on the coasts not the Midwest, she says. They want change, to make trends. We want the same, she says. I leave with a prayer to O-M-GEE. Simple, I plead, make this simple. How hard can holding up boobs be?
Tuesday, November 24, 2015
Woman: Once you name a baby it's no longer an it. She got pregnant. She wasn't supposed to be able to. But she did. And she had the baby. It has fetal alcohol syndrome. Doesn't help that she has no boundaries with her dad. She's an adopted daughter. The father of the baby is adopted too. Man: That's three strikes. That's a lot of strikes.