Cinnamony

Why are things always described as "minty fresh"? Why not "cinnamony fresh"? You never hear people say "cinnamony"? Why is that? And who decided that mint is fresh? 

Is mint fresh?! 

Does mint have properties of freshness that cinnamon lacks? Does mint restore things to a fresher state? Or is it implicitly fresh? Would cinnamon not do the same thing that mint is purported to do? 

What is it that mint does?

Same Kitchen, Different Decade

Fun with re-staging old photos. Obviously, I'm in the 'figuring it out' stage. This was an impromptu attempt. I've started sorting through old photos looking for ones that might be good candidates or just challenging enough to be interesting. 

Here, my niece and I are in my mom's kitchen having what we call a 'Cookie Day'. We get together to make Christmas cookies at my mom's house each year. The first photo was taken in 2002. I find it funny that my mother's kitchen hasn't changed at all in ten years (the only thing staged for this re-do was positioning ourselves where we were standing in 2002. I got the idea to do thus twenty minutes before I left for my mom's house. We took one shot). 

Note that the little item on the shelf to the very left of both photos (a tiny double decker bus memento from a trip to London) is in exactly the same postion as it was in 2002. And that the plant in the background has gotten completely out of hand. The light is very different as is the general quality of the photo (better camera/digital = today). The hand mixer and bowl are unchanged. However, my niece is now as tall as I am. She's the only thing that makes any of this interesting. She was a good sport. It was fun. We'll definitely be doing this again.

Mystery Kitten

There is a kitten in my life. He looks like a little polar bear. He's a big white cat. If I have a bad day he sticks by me like he knows I'm sad. He'll look up at me or my significant other sometimes with this very serious little kitten face. Where did you come from, kitten?

That's the thing. He literally just appeared on our doorstep three years ago. He's a mystery kitten. A mood stabilizing, problem solving mystery kitten with a very serious little face. I realize a photo would be appropriate right now but my photos are still on my old lap top. Another time.

Cassette Tape

I remember seeing insane tumbles of tangled-up cassette tape flying down the expressway or trailing out of a random cars. Or, even stuck in the branches of trees. It was normal. It was a normal, everyday thing to see in the eighties and even the nineties. When was the last time I saw cassette tape unraveled in such a manner? Released from its case for reasons one could never really know, yet knew all too well. Or, merely flying overhead in the wind independent of logic or reason? When was the last time I witnessed cassette tape being  jettisoned out of someone's window? Cassette tape that was both crunchy and silky to the touch if that's even possible. It was true. Because a tape–any tape–found in this state just might be a double album or something great. And maybe I would be the one who would finally rewind what those yelling people up on the eighth floor clearly could not: a tape. A cassette tape. We played them on tape players; we tossed them over our shoulders into back seats, kicked them around living rooms and stored them on hot windshields. And they–the tapes–never asked for anything. They did not ask to be listened to forever, they didn't even ask for ten years. No, they asked to be listened to for a few years. On players that wouldn't last six months and would eventually reject the tape. Just spit it back out. Without warning. The music itself very often still playing as though nothing were wrong.         

In a Yard with Roses

Wayward poppy seeds 
on flimsy paper plates,

the empty 
macaroni salad bowl,

green peeling paint 
on metal chairs,
a chipped blue veil 
on the Virgin Mary's head,
in a yard with roses, 
looming rain clouds, 
a spider
and broken statues, 
in a yard with bees 
that hover too near me 
and this, my amazing 
bratwurst sandwich,
we eat, 
though it is raining on us, 
we eat, 
though we'd rather eat inside.

Rainbow

After the rain 
here in the parking lot 
that's paved with broken 
windshield shards 
sparkling back 
a million hard sunsets 
like crushed orange and lemon 
stained glass candy 
where deep dark puddles 
act as mirrors
to just washed liquid skies 
here, a real rainbow occurred 
a real rainbow
wordless as marquees go 
a silent disco shoot
a bright loopy slide 
stretching universe to universe 
a rainbow 
a real rainbow
spilling out of the sky
and I felt super lucky
and secretly happy 
as I collapsed my umbrella
and saw everyone around me
reaching for their phones. 

Re-Reading Childhood Books

I never found my original copy of Little House on the Prairie. I'll admit that this bothered me for years. I just assumed that all such missing items from childhood were 'somewhere at my Dad's house' and, it turns out, years later (perplexingly) that none of those things were at my Dad's house. So, my boyfriend, who picked up on my distress, came home with a used copy of Little House in the Big Woods the other day. This was so thoughtful and such a surprise that I broke down and cried! Seeing this book (the copy he found was even roughly from the same era as what was my old copy) led me to finally, bravely go searching for my copy of Up a Road Slowly. I had been afraid that this book wasn't where I thought it was and I just didn't want to know for sure that it wasn't. But there it was, on the top shelf of the hallway closet along with Jacob Have I Loved, Tex and The Outsiders. Oddly, Up a Road Slowly has been on my mind a lot lately. I read it the summer before my freshman year in high school–which is confusing as a memory because I also recall being a 'child' when I read it. Something about the way the story is organized, the way the main character respects herself and slowly achieves things meant a great deal to me at fourteen. I recall that I read Up a Road Slowly, which won the Newberry Award and is definitely YA fiction, concurrently with The World According to Garp. It made perfect sense at the time. In honor of this–or due to some sentimental forces beyond my control, I am now re-reading Little House in the Big Woods, Up a Road Slowly and Garp all at once. I highly recommend doing this.   

The Library is Ok

I get a lot done at the library. It's cool and quiet and clean and the floors are made of a special noise absorbing material that also doubles as a kind of pillow for your feet. In my experience, people adjust to the pillow-floor pretty quickly. It causes one to slow down a bit. And, though I don't think it was intended to be a 'feature', the pillow-floor does make everyone that much sneakier. No one ever really knows when someone else is approaching. It's always a surprise. And the sound of the air conditioning, which is just barely audible, is constant–which is key. It's a nice white noise where pure silence might be less effective. Needless to say, people fall asleep at the library all the time. I personally have yet to do so, but I'm not against falling asleep at the library, if and when it does happen. That would be ok.  

The Irony of the Whole Thing

It's the same every time: I'm gliding along calmly not worrying about anything when suddenly I'm swimming desperately to the surface struggling for air. Then I sit up in bed in a panic and can't explain the dream I just had. It's happening right now. Only I'm wide awake. And the distant voice is yelling 'wake up' but I can barely hear it. 


Sometimes I walk around thinking about how happy I am and I forget everything else. Actually, I don't forget anything so much as I don't become involved in the first place. I just focus on whatever I'm doing. I can actually feel my brain learning things. Sometimes I'll start to worry but then I just stop myself. I mean, why worry? There's no reason to worry. 


Other times I'll wake up and realize that there is nothing but sunshine. Not anything else. Not nausea, not panic. Just the sun coming though the curtains. As you can imagine, this leaves room for lots of other things. And that's the irony of the whole thing, right there, if you asked me.

Childhood Kitchen

There was nearly a year spent sorting out my Dad's affairs after he died. For the duration we kept his house more or less operational. We had heat, air, groceries, dishes, utilities, toilet paper, mice, mouse traps. Sometimes I'd get there an hour or more before my brother. I liked the peace and quiet. I liked the moving-vehicles-in-the-sun type reflections that would suddenly appear then sort of stretch out across the one wall. I liked never knowing exactly where these reflections were coming from–or even, for that matter, from which window. Just as when I was little. That had not changed. That would never change. 

Options

You know, I could live in this glass of soda water. I could. I'd live in one of the bubbles. I'd sit cross legged and float in the nothing-nowhere. It would be cool and quiet. It would be like rolling through the hills in a brand new car on a brand new road. And life would be good. Too good, maybe. Sometimes I'd watch the other bubbles. But mostly I wouldn't bother. I'd just sort of un-focus my eyes and space out. I'd be able to really think in there, too. Not right away. But after a couple days the clear thinking would start and I'd be off finally solving mathematical mysteries or writing novels in my head. And the world outside the glass would dissolve away and, ultimately, lose all context and meaning for me. Which would be fine. Like an insect, I would no longer care nor actually be able to fathom the human-scale world. I would be small. Very, very small. And living in a bubble. 

You Stand Up

You are a mote-spec 
in a sun ray
an unfathomable mind
ocean-deep
a handwritten note 
tied to the tail of a balloon
you are unbreakable
the king of the jungle gym
jumping higher than anyone 
running faster than anyone
throwing down if it comes to that
and every day 
when you get shoved to the ground 
you stand up.

Just Ordinary Cleaning Today

Whenever I leave this one air conditioned room where I am currently doing everything–sleeping, working, eating, hop-scotching, cats-cradle-ing–I realize I've already forgotten how hot it is in the other, non-air conditioned rooms. It's the kind of heat that requires one's brain to play tricks on one. To make one forget, I guess, because otherwise the memory of this heat might permanently damage one's fragile id or ego or, at minimum, prevent one from ever leaving this, the one air conditioned room. Did I mention that it is actually quite hot here in this, the one air conditioned room? It is. It's just at a more reasonable level of oppression. One where a person's brain continues to maintain memories of the heat (what with the air conditioner on High and everything, I should certainly hope so). It seems that whenever I get the bright idea to have a day of extraordinary deep cleaning followed by calming, restorative organizing, that the weather works against me. It seems that I can only deep clean when it is cool with low humidity. That I can not comfortably nor restoratively organize in broiling heat. And, as this cleaning was meant to be a departure (in lieu of going out of town this weekend) as opposed to the normal, everyday kind of cleaning, it is with sadness that I report that I will just be ordinarily cleaning today.

Acceptance

The background on my cell phone is an accurate representation of the weather as it is happening outside in real time. This has been going on for weeks with zero input from me. While at first I didn't know what to do or how I felt about it (it is difficult to express how this makes me feel), I've grown to accept and even enjoy the weather as it is represented on my cell phone. It, by it's very presence, assumes that I am always wondering about the weather which I've decided is 'funny' (and have added to the list of things I'll laugh about later). On average I look to my cell phone, to this particular screen with it's spot-on, constantly updated, intuitively generated replica of today's weather hundreds of times per day. I do it not to see if it's still sunny or warm outside so much as to be reassured that there still is weather outside. And the blue background (given specific coordinates, time of day, season and relative cloudiness) that is meant to represent the current sky-scape with it's various shades of blue and gray and it's, quite frankly, breathtaking sun icon (which is always right there in the center except after sundown when, without any fanfare, it becomes the moon) not only has the local weather down but, somehow, seems to understand me, too. In summary, my cell phone which renders simple, accurate representations of the weather wherever I am without my permission, any self-aggrandizing humble-brag nonsense or so much as a peep--knows. It just knows. And I've grown to accept and even enjoy the weather as it is rendered on my cell phone without any input from me. 

Unknowable Soup

soup!
this soup is my rainbow
this soup is my sun
this is why I return to the 7-11
soup
I just walk in
go right past the Doritos 
barely nod at the Ajax
and then 
the spicy noodle bowl aisle
so colorful
so plentiful
I take one down from the shelf
turn it over 
searching it
thinking about it 
these spicy noodles 
no, this isn't really soup 
this plastic, shrink wrapped 
$6.00 bowl 
this is a slick vehicle 
to an unknown destination
this soup, if we can even call it 
that, is the future 
as it unfolds in 
the imagination's memory
this soup is a killer 
this soup is jamais vu
and it will be the end of me 
this spicy noodle bowl

Driving Home

Fake grape flavored wax candy melted 
in the back seat window
leftover, diagonally cut tomato sandwiches   
unwrapped and covered in sand 
a bottle of coconut suntan oil shattered  
on wet-foot-print pavement 
we were driving home 
in the great big Kojak car 
the plastic beach ball still warm from the sun
and one deflated vinyl seahorse 
that smelled artificial and so happy.
like a sun-induced headache
like endless blue summer skies.  

Assignment Complete

You are a molded papier mache ticker-tape creature. A beating heart. A million ideas and observations pressed together in your ready-brain. You are super awareness. A secret weapon. The finished product of all of their training. Broken down. Built back up. Created like magic as though out of thin air. You are invisible as you wait in the old vestibule watching headlights illuminate sparkling rain. It is right then that all the pieces seem to fit together. You step out the door and down the street with your head up and your eyes looking straight ahead. Looking like no one. Looking like you could be anyone. Fifteen minutes later the orange juice and the carton of eggs are on the motion sensitive conveyor. The transaction goes down without incident. You don't blink an eye. Finally, you get your change, your receipt and take your bag and leave the premises at a steady, normal pace. Assignment complete. For now, that is.

A Foregone Conclusion

When I was little, a restaurant named Zuppa's opened up in an old storefront near where we lived. I remember noticing from the street, even as we raced by, my mom semi-dragging me by the elbow, that Zuppa's had abandoned many of the contrivances of 1960's restaurant design. All the old, safe concepts--the cooled down colors, the thick, unifying coats of white paint, the ubiquitous white table cloths were gone. Instead, Zuppa's interior glowed with warmth. The walls were rough, ocher colored and outlined by dark wood trim. And the room was faceted by the sparkle of candles, rich textures and colors.


When Zuppa's opened in the fall, they put fairy lights in the trees just outside pulling this magic out into the street for everyone to enjoy. The effect was inviting and maybe even a tiny bit shocking at the time. Had they actually put Christmas lights up before Halloween? On deciduous trees?! It didn't matter, though. The incredible smell of velvety tomato sauces, roasted garlic, fresh baked bread, steamed muscles, braciole, mushrooms melting in butter with white wine mesmerized the neighborhood. People went in the door of Zuppa's--in out from the cold--laughing amongst themselves, leaving behind their own trail of wonderful suede and lemony perfume. These were people that were just that much younger than my parents. These were people that I was going to be one day. 


This version of adulthood--which I, for whatever reason, projected onto the patrons of Zuppa's--contained no years of struggle, no troubled friends, no loneliness, no searching. This version of adulthood as imagined by a nine-year-old contained no bad people, no great-big mistakes, no strife. It was simply 1) four years of college (bangs, Levis, Addidas and probably Love's Baby Soft) followed by 2) being a grown-up (cashmere sweaters, Joan & David and most certainly Chanel No. 5). 'Grown-up' being that juncture in one's life that directly follows childhood. That juncture where one not only has everything figured out but also has great hair, a career and a small circle of happy, supportive friends.    


One day I was going to get to Zuppa's. It was true. And this meant many things that I never literally put into words so much as knew or felt. It was just that every single time I walked past Zuppa's this goal, this image of idealized adulthood was reinforced in my mind as always out there somewhere in the future. The events that would connect those dots were still uncertain. And, although those grown-ups (as found at Zuppa's) had some hard to define quality, it wasn't about one's station in life, necessarily, or success. It was something about being perfectly comfortable in the world. About laughing. About being happy. And I, too, would get there, one day. I had it all worked out. 

I've Always Loved The Bean

The Bean makes me feel like I'm walking though the other side of a mirror-world. Or, like there's an upside down sky that I might fall into if I'm not perfectly careful. Or that maybe it is possible to reflect everything in the world all at once--at least everything in Chicago--just so long as your mirror is properly shaped like a Bean.


Walking slowly up to the Bean--something I do more often than I care to admit--while looking at it as a whole, as a sculpture, or while specifically looking for myself or whomever I happen to be with in the reflection of the Bean, is, at the very least, mildly dizzying. As well, my eyes are drawn to the reflection of the sun which seems to shut down parts of my vision for whole minutes. So, naturally, I keep losing track of where my feet go. And of where the ground is. 


You can see hundreds of people approaching the Bean. Most while looking through their cameras and phones. After a few minutes of looking at the Bean I definitely feel less attached to the ground and more weightless than I prefer. As though tripping and falling could actually mean crashing through the sky. Which, as fun, reflective, upside down ideas go, is suboptimal for me. Yet I keep returning. I just love the Bean. 

It's a Stack of Jeans

It's a stack of jeans. Denim. About fifteen pairs. There is no other way to describe it. I keep them sorted in a stack as it is only in this way that my jeans can be all in one place and still remain reasonably visible. As well, I keep them sorted this way because I just can't bear to hang any jeans on a hanger. I mean it, if I ever have to hang a pair of jeans on a hanger it's over. I will leave. There will be no note, no explanation. I'll just be gone. And I will never come back. 


The problem is, every once in a while this stack of jeans falls over or becomes degraded as pairs are inevitably taken out from the middle. So, what was almost square, compact, even towering as a stack of jeans--become more of a slanted, untidy, mountain of jeans. Or, 'pile of jeans', if you will. Then I re-fold them and carefully place the jeans back into a stack formation. This occurring three, four sometimes as many as five times a day. One day I'm sure I will finally throw my hands up and say, 'You win, jeans!'. One day. But that day is not today. 

Treetops

What I assumed was an owl (what I had always assumed was an owl--maybe not the same owl, but an owl) whoo-ing in the distance turns out not to be an owl at all. It is likely a dove. This was explained to me by my significant other who is really good at delivering correct information. That is to say, the kind of information that might turn another's world and their assumptions about it upside down. He does it in such a whatever-your-idea-is-funnier-I wouldn't-have-a world-without-your-funny-ideas way. He is kind even when it is not necessary to take the extra step of being kind. He treats people well. He does this because he is a genuinely happy, strong, mentally sound person. I mention owls and get told, no, doves. It's hard, but like I said, there's always laughter with my significant other. Laughter followed by cake and coffee. You can imagine how I laughed, ultimately, when I realized just how long I had thought a dove (or doves) was an owl. It's true. We aren't in the forest. I kind of thought we were. It was the three or four pine trees that threw me off. The woodpecker noise, however, is real. That has been confirmed. I hear woodpeckers everywhere, so this is a relief. I like the specific hollowness of the sound that woodpeckers make. It reminds me of the few wooden instruments that wait to be played on the percussion-person's percussion table at the symphony. Some of these instruments are used only rarely. Some of them are used just once during a performance. But, oh, when they do use the wooden percussive instruments, it's always perfect. Such woodpecker sounds (whether real, musically reproduced or imagined) make me feel both grounded and transported. Transported to somewhere exotic like maybe Michigan or even Ohio. And, it brings the word 'treetops' to mind for some reason. In a font that's probably called Twiggy Sans. I'm picturing just about any Great Lake's region summer camp T-shirt: 'Camp Something Or Other'. The words are rendered from twig-shaped letter with a graphic of pine trees in the background. Camp Something Or Other. Pine trees. Tree houses. Owls. Birds. Twigs. Great Lakes. It's been a strange, unprecedentedly early spring this year. All of the ubiquitous symbols are jangling around in my winter-brain like a box of coat hangers trying unsuccessfully to un-puzzle themselves. At this rate it will be summer by Tuesday. And I am, as one might expect, very confused. 

Square One

You have brain fog and can't express yourself. At least not in the manner you did before. Over the course of months the brain fog lifts but, unfortunately, old modes of expression do not return. Instead, you start over from square one and awkwardly learn other modes of expression. And, although it sounds fairly frustrating, and is fairly frustrating, in the end you state that you'd 'not have it any other way'. Meanwhile, vague, wordless impressions of struggling at being new in the world silently bubble to the surface. It's almost like getting a whole new life. Only, no one tells you that it's like getting a whole new life. Or, maybe they do, but when they do you automatically tune out such messages as 'unlikely'. 

Blue Apple

I had a dream that I was in a produce aisle. At some point I noticed a blue apple. At first I was surprised by an apple being blue but then I remembered, 'Oh, of course, blue apples! How could I have forgotten?'. Then I looked around and saw that there were whole bins of dark green and white apples. Then I woke up. I felt rested. But the question remained: Why a blue apple? Could this dream have something to do with finally admitting to myself that I really don't know that much about apples? That apples, like most fruits and vegetables, are full of surprises? The thing is, I was really happy about the apple being blue. I felt certain that I had simply lost track of such apples and was mildly shocked by my ability to completely forget such a thing. It felt almost careless on my part. And I felt a tiny bit guilty for the carelessness. And something about the blue apple corresponded with a pair of faded navy blue leather shoes I had in the fifth grade that I loved and wore with everything until they literally disintegrated. The colors in my dream were vibrant and occurred in strange and interesting combinations. It felt symbolic of creativity and ingenuity. Of endless possibilities on many, though wordless, fluent fronts in what is probably my lizard brain. Or is it my bird brain? So, in summary, my dream was good and it was about apples. Personally, I like mine cut into bite sized cubes mixed with some baby spinach and tossed with homemade balsamic vinaigrette. Delish!

A Sideboard of One's Own

Our house? Shoes. It's shoes strewn about pointing every-which-way. That's how I'd describe it. And creaky floors. And streaks on a mirrors and surfaces. And stacks of things. And old things. And good things. And things that were never really ours. Things that either of us inherited. And some things still in boxes that are forever infused with an on-the-cusp smell of plain, unscented yet to be burned candles.  


It's the way that one cabinet always smelled. The one where we kept the cloth napkins. Best. Luncheon. Everyday. In that order. All ironed. All folded and awaiting duty. It contained the paper napkins, too. A few stray Raggedy Ann birthday napkins sat forgotten and waiting in vain for over thirty years. And there was the never opened package of cocktail napkins that were older than me. The napkins themselves embossed with the letter J in a font that no longer even exists. One wonders what happened--why were these J napkins never used?


It was a sideboard. It contained table setting items. Napkin rings. Tasteful trivets--trivets so restrained in their design that it left one frozen, speechless then weeping for the pure incredibility of it all. It contained boxes of long wooden matchsticks with gold tips used on Christmas to light luminarias, gorgeous teal and gold peacock motif matchbooks just 'because' and special retractable forks for the polite skewing of olives and pickles--as well, jewel colored glass swizzle sticks, mother of pearl petit-four servers, silver sugar cube tongs, and every kind of glassware imaginable.


It was like some unspoken goal that I had always had, that I knew I had always had but that I had never acknowledged that I had always had: I wanted a sideboard. A sideboard of my own. Filled with items just for the purpose of entertaining. Filled with things like tea sets, hand painted autumn leaf centerpieces, varieties of birthday candles (pastel colored, primary colored, numbers, roman numerals, letters in comic sans and helvetica), baby shower cupcake decorations, little tiny vodka glasses, lobster themed salt and pepper shakers, cupid bow and arrow themed paper plates. And, all the way in the back, a set of six mortgage burning themed martini glasses.


Not to mention the notebook. Neatly handwritten personal notes and sketches--with pages torn from magazines of coconut covered cakes elevated on antique milk-glass pedestals, of ladylike floral arrangements in yellows and golds, of white-on-white winter table-scapes, of recipes, of seating arrangements, of china patterns.


Yes. It was all there. Existing somewhere in the back my mind. A sideboard. A cabinet for the singular purpose of table setting. Never opened for any reason other than for a hostess to prepare to host. She--kneeling before her sideboard, considering her choices. Probably while wearing a long, dark pink velvet hostess gown with empire waist and oval neckline. Probably while wearing matching gold pave ring and brooch. Probably with her hair half-up. Probably with a daub of Shalimar behind each ear. 


And when you arrive the hostess throws open the door and says, Hellooo! and gives you a lipstick side kiss and hands you a scotch and a little plate because this party is a buffet. There are miniature meatballs in a caramelized grape-jelly sauce, artichoke dip, cheese fondu, sliced beef, pasta in lemon shallot. Lots of delicious things. All in special matching buffet dishes that are kept warm via the flame of utilitarian candles meant for that very purpose (hence such candles having a thick, more rough-hewn appearance than a normal votive might; hence such candles being kept quite apart from the other more decorative candles). 


Later, maybe even the next day, with windows wide open and abundant sunshine coming through, after all the dishes have been done, after all the bins have been emptied and all the bottles have been taken to the curb, after all the candle holders have been given a warm soapy soak, and all the floors have been swept and mopped and dried and the guest towels have been replaced and fluffed--later, perhaps while listening to some soft music--all the items used to set the table, used to entertain (now clean, now dry, now lined up neatly on the dining room table) will be put carefully back into the sideboard; carefully back where table setting items belong.  


. . .
Our house? A sideboard in our house--even this very sideboard described from my childhood--would hold very neatly a few candles and the five or six tablecloths I've collected over the years and then I'd be looking around wondering what else to put in it. Though at first I'd resist any such suggestion, the unused space would quickly begin to house practical things. Grocery bags, light bulbs, boxes of raisin bran. Then, later, freezer bags, rolls of duct tape, cat chow--even some loose rubber bands. And the sideboard wouldn't be positioned in the dining room where it would make sense, but more awkwardly in a hallway. And there would always be a stack of junk mail on top of it. And, occasionally, a pizza box on top of that.
. . . 

Snow Day

A Scoop of Peppermint Ice Cream

Hi. I don't think we've met. I'm a scoop of peppermint ice cream. You've probably seen me. I live at the ice cream parlor down the street. You know the one--it stays open pretty late and has those little white tables and chairs--ring a bell? Yeah, that's where I've been staying. I've seen what goes on. That whole thing with the sprinkles last year? All true. The petty back stabbing between regular, waffle and sugar cones? Yep, also true. Every word. 


Me? I have all day. I'm in no hurry. How would I describe myself? Well, I am neither pink nor green. I am rather cream colored with real flecks of crushed peppermint candy, actually. This sets me apart from my many imitators, of course. I can be mixed with chocolate, mocha, tea and fruit sorbets--even citrus ices. I know! It's fascinating, isn't it? However, I do not tolerate peanut butter, pumpkin-spice or caramel flavors very well. Let me tell you all about it. Wait. Hold on--I've got another call. 


I'm back. Anyway, I am peppermint ice cream. Not mint ice cream. There is a difference. I am, as well, uniquely suited for winter consumption unlike 99% of the other flavors. I know, I know, 'how weird' (cough! humble-brag). When people bring this up I glom on to it. Yes! Let's talk about the irony of my being peppermint flavored! No, I don't mind talking about it again. I never mind talking about it again. Hm? Why are all the other flavors leaving? Hey! I'm peppermint ice cream, what's the problem? Of course I talk about myself all day, I'm interesting, duh! 

Icy, Minty

icy
minty
saucers, spoons
menus
puddles 
random lull
weird momentary public silence
window seat
winter boots
snow soaked bags of groceries 
pre-washed baby spinach in a plastic box
yoplait
radishes
q-tips
other people shoveling in the distance
branches on trees that are rock-candy
a neighborhood that is a gingerbread town
wet woolen, church bazaar mittens
tiny paw prints
walking in the door
rag rugs
coat hooks
the heat coming on   
orange peels
warm 
dry

Workflow

Whenever my phone rings I remember that it's still on a one-beep setting. I need to change it back but I keep putting it off. It turns out that changing things like the settings on my phone interrupts my workflow. It breaks down as follows: 


1. My phone rings. 
2. I remember that it's still on one-beep setting.
3. I stop everything.
4. I go search for my phone.  
5. I change the settings on my phone. 
6. I go back to my desk.
7. I get into several well meaning yet unnecessary conversations along the way.
8. I sit down.
9. I attempt to get back into previous mode of workflow.  
10. I stare blankly at my computer. 
11. I think about the concept of one's 'body of work'.  
12. I think about the meaning of the word legacy.
13. I think about the sunshine. 
14. I think about getting up and leaving the building. About never coming back.
15. I go get a cookie. 


So, as you can see, it is for very good reason that things such as changing the one-beep setting on my phone (which was employed specifically to be less disruptive months ago but is no longer necessary) have yet to be addressed. Because such interrupts my fairly gullible, easily confused, much too fickle yet somehow lovable workflow. I could write about it all day long. I won't. But I could (just a little warning that things could start to go that way at any time).