Rose Prick Perfume: An Investigation

I've been trying to figure out what it is about Rose Prick, a not so new, new perfume by Tom Ford that costs a fortune and for which there are no samples. I don't know why I ever tried it in the first place, or where this all started, though, presumably, it all started at Macy's. 

I've learned that Tom Ford is probably best is known for Fucking Fabulous–a perfume that I have tested and, in my opinion, smells really nice (fabulous, even). It, too, comes in a distinct chess piece shaped bottle, as does his entire line. Tom Ford is known for his slightly racy naming convention, which is either officially 'controversial' or 'not at all controversial'.

I'm not alone, certainly, in wondering why the company didn't name Rose Prick, 'F*ing Prick' or 'What a Prick'. These do seem like the clear, more obvious choices. And something like these examples was probably on the table and they just dropped the ball. It might have been corporate's attempt to tone down That Which Can Still Be Changed. Because maybe That Which Can No Longer Be Changed, Fucking Fabulous, was a very risky, over zealous error, never to be repeated again (yet, with the precedent set, and in an attempt to keep things of a piece with something like Fucking Fabulous–the tradition continues, But it's watered down). It makes me wonder if the name Rose Prick was decide before any perfume was actually composed. 

Perfume basically gives me a headache, but I enjoy the idea of perfume. I like reading perfume reviews. And I'm surprised so many people still wear perfume, especially since you really can't wear it in an office anymore. But I realize, even if I did wear perfume, I would never wear Rose Prick.

That said, there's just something about Rose Prick. There's some element or ingredient in it that reminds me of something. And this, in and of itself, causes a whole nearly-remembering-something chain of events–something I've learned is better known as 'presque vu', and is tangentially related to deja vu. 

I can't quite access whatever this memory is, nor discern the element in this scent that is triggering the memory. The elements in Rose Prick are pretty straightforward: Sichuan pepper, turmeric, May rose, Bulgarian rose, Turkish rose, patchouli and tonka bean, none of which have this effect on me in any other combination. Making the whole thing even stranger.

Having a memory triggered by Rose Prick is, for me, like having a word on the tip of my tongue. It feels like I am this close to figuring what it is about Rose Prick. But, I need to be able to smell Rose Prick in order to unlock the memory it triggers. And then, of course, it stops working, and by then I have a headache. And I give up.

So, when I'm out doing errands, which is not very often these days, finding Rose Prick is part of the plan. So much so that my significant other asked yesterday if we need to find 'rose something'. Which was so nice of him, because yes, we did. 

And, later, on the L, on our way back home, having stopped at Macy's for my dose of Rose Prick, to again try to figure out what it is that I am almost remembering, sniffing my wrist through both my coat and my mask, it was, as always, suddenly, briefly within my grasp. I had it. I knew what it was. It was right there. And then–it was gone. 

It's like forgetting a dream. Then having things just barely remind you of that dream all day long. Then, it stops working. And then I'm just stuck smelling like Rose Prick, and honesty, I'm starting to get used to it.   

It's almost like I'm chasing a dragon. And it's occurred to me that maybe that's the whole point of this perfume. That maybe this is the effect it has on everyone. That it's not just me, but part of the perfume's alchemy. That perhaps the scent is so bad because the scent isn't even the point.  

Maybe the real magic of Rose Prick is in it's chemical makeup which, as it is inhaled, intoxicates the wearer, targeting the memory. And all one has to do is apply more Rose Prick. Maybe the fact that the perfume itself is so bad while also being so addictive is the real 'f you', right there and really, how else for a designer to finally say FU to their customer base than via such a devious campaign!?!  

All that aside, my first impression of Rose Prick was that it had absolutely nothing to do with roses. Sure, it has an accord in part made up of roses. But if it were called anything else, something generic such as, 'Fleur-de-Lis', I would not detect a single roses in Rose Prick. What I do detect is something candied. And maybe something reminiscent of bath powder. Or, if there are any roses, they are made edible somehow, like Turkish Delight. But fresh cut roses? No, there are no fresh cut roses, nor anything else that is fresh in Rose Prick.

Or! If there are any roses to be found in Rose Prick, they've been boiled down with sugar for hours, made molten, then cooled into something hard, clear and artificial like a red lollipop, whose flavor is described only as "Red". But even then–it doesn't address the 'something else in there' element. And, again–this is where it all get so confusing. I am not simply mystified by the terribleness of this scent, but, as stated above, by what it evokes: by what it does. By what it is doing.  

And, if it even matters, what I'm almost remembering are the vaguest of impressions. And I feel like it's a mistake to attempt to put it into words, but if pressed, I'd say the memory has something to do with a hospital or cotton candy or a carnival or a nurse or medicine. 

So, these days, if I walk into Macy's it's not casually, but in order to accomplish the following: 

1. To spray Rose Prick on my wrist–a wrist that already has zero perfume on it because: 

A. I only wear perfume around the house, if ever.

B. I don't want to offend anyone else with my perfume, in the odd circumstance I am wearing it. Except in the instance of wearing Rose Prick, then clearly I don't care one bit! (Actually, I do care, quite a bit. Much of this story is completely made up). 

And

C. Given all of the above, I know I'm going to apply some Rose Prick to my wrist at some point if I am doing errands. I know this because I apply Rose Prick to my wrist at some point whenever I do errands. And having it clash with another perfume on my wrist, in the rare instance I am wearing any, would ruin this investigation.  

2.  To also spray Rose Prick on my sleeve. This, to occur while spraying my wrist, a sort of 'two for one' perfume grab, if you will. My sleeve, in this case, should be machine washable and comprised of 100% natural fibers. The reason for getting some of the perfume on my sleeve, as well as on my wrist, is due to the fact that perfume lasts much longer on fabric than it does on one's skin. Though it will smell differently on fabric than it does on skin, sometimes a person must make concessions when trying to conduct analysis on a perfume for which access is unpredictable. 

3. To get yet another dose of the perfume as a backup on one of those paper cards you find supplied at perfume counters. Even as I'm spraying perfume on my wrist and sleeve–this further spraying of perfume onto a card is all in an effort to get as much perfume out the door with me as possible during any one opportunity I get to do so, while still behaving as non-hoarding as possible.

4. However, if the person behind the counter is not paying attention or happens to walk away, I will proceed, as practiced, to quickly decant a sample of the perfume from the tester into a medical grade glass bottle* I've carefully hidden up my sleeve for this very purpose (and so many others). But, if at any time a clerk comes over, or starts to seem suspicious, I can–though I really, really don't want to–take my decant and the tester bottle and run out the nearest exit and walk** at a normal pace to the westernmost bank of elevators, look at my cell phone as I wait, go up to Housewares on the 8th floor, browse as though I'm shopping for flatware, take the stairs from the 8th floor to the 6th floor, walk over to the easternmost bank of escalators, take the escalator back down to the ground level, and, now that I'm situated on the opposite side of the building from where I began (having confused everyone who thought I was stealing with my completely dazzling lack of concern for getting caught) I exit the store.

Then, about a week later, I can return to the store, the tester bottle of Rose Prick tucked safely up my sleeve, and look at scarves then umbrellas then hats–all in a way that suggests to the most hardboiled of store security that I'm really shopping. Then, after winding up in the perfume department at the counter in question, I can with a gloved hand (the softest, deepest burgundy, bracelet length leather glove imaginable) place the bottle back onto it's rightful pedestal with the cap on straight, and perfectly centered. But first–! I can spray some of the perfume on my wrist and sleeve as though that was the whole reason I was standing there. Then, if a clerk does come over, I can talk to them about perfume and behave normally. And ask them for a sample of Rose Prick. Already knowing, of course, that there are no samples of Rose Prick. Then–if they are the type of clerk who relishes getting petit revenge on their workplace, but only in the most plausibly deniable ways–they can, as I depart, hand me a small shopping bag filled with 25 or so perfume samples, some of which I will realize only later are samples of Rose Prick––f*ing finally!

* purchased from overseas  

** But in reality: "Walk..." two steps away from the counter to spray it on my wrist, so as not to get it on the clerk, who no doubt has a headache every single day. –The End. 

Editing: Mad Skills or Just a Symptom of Something?

 Somewhere, probably fifty years agoin the pouring rain |  the windshield wipers 

in TRAFFIC \\\ the passenger anxiously twists her dove    ....................................................gray gloves:::  a taxi waits at a light........she's "loath" to be stuck anywhere in the rain but truly loath to be stuck in a cab

|||||||||||||o ||k|||      the  R elentl ess ticking of a wristwatch–but, whose /////////////////

"I'm sorry, I'm in a hurry", she explained Just, JUST it's just that I'm 

l  l ll l llll. . . . . ...entranced but it's already a quarterpast 10

transfixed by a single sparkling raindrop......... . . . . . would  you?>>>> >  >>

rolling raining down the windows; reflecting, mirroring, casting  

amid a galaxy of  raindrops star-like, reminds me of //////     micro

each in its own universe.                      ........ 

some untold magic, of course. she ignored

-  - -    Not yet. I mean, not ever (((actually)))  the scene developing outside of the  safe confi n es of    this c ab ................––––––––--------- - - -

on the street the pedestrians, in the cold and wet running from never toward fear

spectral highlightstheir ruined shoes;and many without a coat that day            

bumping umbrellas, scrambling to get to)))))))no more than a newspaper to protect

destinations. themselves. But absorbed in thought 

and calmer finally.Andshegaveupon (((((((wait,what?

]]]]]]]]]]]being Lost o...................but thi s   d o esn't    ∫ ∫ ∫ ∫  ∫ ∫ ∫ ∫ ∫ ∫ ∫ ∫ ∫   ∫   ∫   ...........;;;;;;;;;;;...................\\\\\\\\\

on time and let the\\Familiarsound of ..>>the city

because |    windshield wipers put her into a deep Trance, perhaps inside every cab, things like this cannot be planned, she thought.  

the passenger, lulled by t he sound of t he windshield wiper s :::::::She felt disappeared, vanished------------the steady, oddly calming

Flow state due to the thump and track of the wiper blades:::on the glass

boots that were cracked, peeling and frankly no longer waterproof (and were  never warm to begin w/)  +

•••••••••••..................................................not..........................................................√

by the sound of  the windshiel d  wipers   

marking ..________t i me • 

Cinnamon: Minimum Cinema

At first the knocking is faint and you are able to ignore it. But it slowly becomes louder and more insistent. And one night it wakes you. And you see cracks have developed on the walls, which begin to widen until the plaster crumbles to pieces. Once the walls cave in completely and all the dust clears away, you find yourself standing in a the middle of the wilderness. And you realize that the wall were only temporary. That everything is only temporary.  

Dreams & TV

icing piped in uneven loops around a cake in the kitchen
cracked blue leather shoes drying on a mat by the door
windows rattling
abruptly coming down with the flu  
falling asleep in a chair
coughing, tea left untouched 
dreams and tv 
the next day: soup 
hot cereal, aspirin
headaches, re-runs, ringing telephones
people, rain.

(2013)

Shalimar Eau de Parfum by Guerlain: Beautiful; Spooky

Shalimar opens sparkling with lemons and bergamot. And there's something else that's a bit unsettling. But you ignore it. The abundant citrus is so stunning you actually have to sit down. The whole thing feels distant, like it's occurring in someone else's memory. And all you can do is sit there at your mirror and watch as the opera unfolds.

You note the rays of winter light coming softly through the blinds, filtered by layers of sheers and curtains. Like all the many layers you yourself are wrapped in. Properly dressed. What time is it? Yes, you feel about as far away as you can get from where you are when you wear this perfume. 

The late morning light shines on the items on your table, the cut glass decanter of Shalimar throwing prisms all around the room. The wind blows the leaves outside dappling sunlight in your windows like a silent film. You feel super faceted. But from the very start something has bothered you. And you realized something is–on fire? Is that a fire?    

Black smoke closes in and all you can imagine are the fiery orange colors and thickness and gravity of smoke. You hear the haunting notes of white ghosts and melting strings. Violins, oboes, rain drops. And then, just as quickly, this dissolves and changes and you wonder if you had imagined it all. 

All the actors leave the stage. And a strange, delicious incense steps forward, wafting loose arabesques up into the quietest reaches of the highest ceilings in the safest rooms with the longest windows in the world. And it's magic. And there you stand in your window holding your tea looking out at the traffic in the wet streets below. You, so safe up above. So safe. 

Later, as the incense extinguishes, a smoky, wordless vanilla emerges from the ashes. And you know, finally, that right now is perfect even as it is already over. And you are at last existential–without the crisis. You die laughing at the absurdity. If it's all so meaningless, then why is it all so beautiful? You watch the clouds move across the November sky. And you wonder, can any of this ever really be explained? 

For the Love of Drag Races

It was still pretty early. We stood out front of the supermarket, laughing, the wind blowing up the backs of our kerchiefs. It was getting cold. I wore my brown gingham dress with the green sweater and my blue school shoes. You wore your best blue dress with your sunday school sweater and your old Shoe Town ankle boots. Cars with painted on flames started pulling up, circling around and revving. We had a week's worth of lunch money, our combined baby sitting earnings and two wrapped meatloaf sandwiches in our pocketbooks. We had toothbrushes, pen, paper, lipstick, and a bar of ivory soap. There would be no future. But drag races were forever.

Waiting for My Burrito: An Anxiety Attack

Real mom and pop food 
with real sour cream 
for real people 
with real problems 
"a black bean burrito, please" 
I'm number 17
I'm waiting for my burrito
my laundry is tumbling not a block away
from this old wood paneled restaurant
with a zoo calendar hanging from a thumb tack
above the cash register
and a red plastic kitchen clock 
and super tiny receipts with almost no ink
I'm waiting for a burrito
a black bean burrito
my burrito
I'm just waiting for my burrito.  

The plastic stained glass light fixtures 
tell a weird story about some red and blue people 
who live in what looks to be a green valley 
with red flowers and a great big yellow sun
I'm waiting 
at one of the oil cloth covered tables  
breathing in and out 
but still, it creeps up on me, sometimes
and before I know it
Waa!
you are in my living room window
why are you in my living room WINDOW?
raindrops! raindrops!
quick 
please something 
start rinsing away this person's FACE from my window! 
ok ok 
shhh ok ok ok shhh it's ok
breathe
I'm waiting for my burrito 
I'm waiting for my burrito
I'm waiting for my burrito
that's all that's going on 
here
I'm just waiting for my burrito. 

Oh look, see? 
there's a "veritable kaleidoscope" 
of drink flavor choices in that cooler over there 
how fun
all lined up and rattling together
with such a classic, ice cube-y sound
heh
I'll go get two diet cokes out to add to my order
you know
one for now, one for later
because I know I'll want one later
I always do
yeah–
me?
I'm ok
really, I am
I'm just waiting for my  burrito.

So, where was I? 
oh, right, I was running down the block
to add the fabric softener before it was too late
when you
when you came-a-creeeeeeping 
back in
creep creeping creeeeeeping back in
creepy creep creeper
creeeeeeeping back in
slithering like a snake, all snake like
help help
SPIDER oh god
boundary pushing pushy pusher 
pushing me 
wait! WAIT.
stop 
ok 
calm down, it's ok
I'm just here 
waiting for a burrito
that's all 
it's Tuesday 
I've got some laundry going 
everything's ok
I'm just waiting for my burrito.

Desert Heist

We were in the middle of the desert. The jewelry store where I worked was a round structure up on stilts reminiscent of The Lautner House. It was floor to ceiling glass. Panoramic views of ink colored clouds in gradient skies. It was transparent mountains against layers of light. From the blackest teal flecked with stars and planets all the way down to the palest shimmering pink horizon. 

As you can imagine, I was the jewelry store's sole security person. And the password, which was simply "crown, had been carelessly said aloud by me more than a few times at that point in the dream. Still, I continued to behave shocked whenever someone would tauntingly repeat the password back to me. For some reason I expected people to at least pretend that they didn't care what the password was. 

Later, after the sun set, I, the store's sole security person, found myself alone in a jewelry store filled with gold and precious stones in the middle of nowhere. Of course, it wasn't long before a group of people showed up on motor bikes and began loudly circling the building. Within minutes they were inside rifling through everything. This was a heist. The real deal. They shoved me along with a few other people into one of the vaults and shut the door. 

I wondered aloud if we were going to be killed. Nobody answered me. This became the hook from which I hung all of my hopes and dreams. Maybe, just maybe, no one had even considered killing us? Maybe this wasn't that big a deal? Maybe I was misunderstanding everything? Maybe. Whatever was happening, I knew one thing. I would have to wait to find out. Like anyone who's ever found themselves in a similar position, I would have to wait for an answer.    

One Way Ticket to Mars

God, I'd kill for some pancakes right now. My gum lost all it's flavor hours ago yet I keep chewing it because, it turns out, you never know when there will be more chewing gum. I've noticed that they've downplayed the scarcity of things like chewing gum out here. Which is fine. I get it. I mean, I'm ok if I never chew gum again, it's just that I wish they'd be more upfront about it. Because never knowing which piece of chewing gum will be my last has become weirdly unsettling for me.

Yesterday was kinda–odd. I don't want to say "bad". I don't know. I don't want to be negative or anything, but I watched the Earth get smaller and smaller until it became nothing more than a blue twinkling out in space–just a dot among a million other dots and stars. This fell on the 'Scale of Awfulness' somewhere between 'Bad' and 'Completely Terrifying'. But I was good. I just put another yellow pill under my tongue and waited. That always helps. They said it helps and to use it and I do. They've never led me wrong. "Bye-bye, Earth", I said. "Bye-bye".

What I like about not needing to eat or bathe anymore is that, for the time being at least, as long as I remain totally low maintenance and easy going, I could literally stare off into space all day long if I wanted and no one, I mean no one, would bat an eye. It's almost as though we are cargo. Human cargo being carted through outer space on the biggest rig imaginable. They just have to get us there. Then they'll relax. And when they relax, we'll relax. And that's all people want, when you think about it. To just finally relax. 

Flying

going 
zipping rolling gliding
bouncing conveying   
everything fitting into one bag 
sound breakfast sandwich
choice making  
running skating 
through corridors 
having it all 
having this bottle of water
having this chapstic 
I am 
finally lint free 
I am 
practically at my gate
newly dedicated 
thinking space
now artificially improved
cleared for take off 
clicked in
considering water bottle
regarding pretzels
taxiing
enduring tolerating
chapstic located
shoes 
clouds.

Cake and Coffee Reception

The volume was turned down that day 

but I saw the sparkling sponge mop 

glide across a floor 
and then the game show host  
held his microphone like a magic wand
and then the cake

decorated with frosting roses
was brought officially down 

to the finished basement 

that had a little mirrored bathroom all it's own 
the coffee urn has an small, round orange light
and there was the sound of the 

aunts and the mom's gold jewelry tinkling 
the sound of nylons against their rayon   

of gold cigarette lighters clicking
of laughing
of cake forks clinking 
of metal folding chairs scrapping 

white twinkling terrazzo  
as the cutting 
of the communion cake squares 
commenced
but there were only so many pieces 

with roses
and a few girls looked tired 

of wearing veils all day

but they each
got white gift wrapped boxes
they each got hearts and crosses
white velvet
diamonds and gold.

Dark Rainbow

Sticky pop covered movie theater floor
the stack of white institutional paper napkins 
pressed together
hospital strength pink pearl soap 
the phone booth with the rainbow sticker 
still stuck 

Crowning yellow plastic butter pouring down
hair combs stuck in back pockets we belong
eyeliner melted on with fire badge of badness 
I ordered a medium coke 
and removed the straw from its white wrapper
that first sip
a million bubbles syrupy joy 

In the end, we pushed back through the steel doors 
back into a corridor of blowing trash 
back into the traffic 
back into the world 
of unknowns and dark rainbows

I wore cloud socks that day
you wore sparkle socks
we ran home like sisters screaming
past the bus
past trees that might turn monstrous
    

Time Travel

It happens every forty-seven minutes. First the music starts. Violins mostly, evoking a slow, inevitable downward spiral. Then a man seen only in silhouette steps into the room. He puts down his brief case, the walls fall away and then begins what can only be described as his slow fall from a skyscraper. When he lands we know he's okay by the way he's sitting in a chair with his back to us, smoking a cigarette. It's as though he's bored by the whole thing. 

It's been two and a half days of endless episodes of Mad Men via Netflix Instant. It's starting to take a toll. Admittedly, I was late to the party. Mad Men was all new to me. When I first noticed that five seasons of Mad Men were available on Netflix I ignored it. I usually don't watch TV on Netflix. But, like many, I had heard things. Things about Mad Men. Things about incredibly accurate set and costume design. Things about period coiffure experts. And, I just couldn't take it anymore. 

You might say by the time I finally clicked on the Mad Men icon that it was already too late. That was Tuesday. It's now Thursday and everything has changed. As well, I'm keenly aware that I'm running out of episodes. I don't know just how I'm going to return to life as it is lived in 2013–to reality as it is experienced outside of my laptop–only that I must. That is, I don't know just why any of this has happened, only that it has to stop. 

Was Mad Men written with this kind of compressed viewing in mind? I noticed quite a few inconsistencies in the writing that I think might have otherwise gone undetected had I allowed any actual living of life to occur between viewings. Of course, I can't be sure. I can't un-watch Mad Men. I can't un-see what I've seen in the concentrated way that I saw it. Personally? I wouldn't do it again. But, please, don't let that stop you.

Sunny Enough

The sun – which, if I am totally honest with myself is no more than medium-bright today – is being enhanced somehow by how green everything has become literally overnight. It even smells green today. And my mood is about an eight this morning. So there's that. And this, too, effects the way I'm perceiving the sun. So, I guess if it were cooler out, or if everything were less green right now or if I were currently depressed the sun might seem less bright to me. 

It's entirely possible.

What I'm trying to say is that the sun is not currently shinning 'brilliantly' the way it does, say, in the movies or on tv. But, that I'm in a good mood anyway (eight on a scale of ten). And that the sun, which keeps coming back from behind the clouds as though to say it won't ever give up, is one resilient mofo (that crazy sun!). It keeps going; keeps getting back up, back out there in the sky to shine another day. So, while today is not the sunniest day in the world, it is medium sunny. And that's saying something.

Taste the Rainbow

Friday was the first warm, sunny day this spring in Chicago. I worked a half day and had that airplane-in-the-sky happy, soaring feeling upon walking out into the street. And there was the sense, too–that, even though you couldn't see it, a large body of water was nearby. It happens a lot this time of year. It's not that it smells like water or even fish, necessarily. It's something about the sky. It's something about the way the buildings in the distance just stop.

So, I walked through the neighborhood where I now work with my coat all rolled up in my bag, feeling sort of weightless. The whole world was wrapped up in blue skies. With the clouds giving away the curve and the shape of things. I could feel the distance and the size. I felt very, very small. And the sun, which had warmed the grass and earth and even things like garden hoses, made everything smell so familiar and promising. I was happy. So happy I couldn't decide whether to write poems or take photos. So happy that I had to be careful not to relapse in some way.  

My bus arrived and I kept thinking about how emotions are like flavors or colors that can be mixed to become other, more complex flavors and colors. Like the way I occasionally mix peppermint and orange tea. Peppermint becomes 'anger' and orange becomes 'happiness'. And mixed they become 'schadenfreude', or just, 'laughing darkly about something', I guess.

I wanted so badly to go home right then. Really home to sit on my front stoop from years ago. Or at my table in my old-old kitchen. With the windows pushed wide open and the birds singing. With the green painted wrought iron peeling. With the sound of everything and the sun shining. But then I thought about how I'd never be back there again. And how weird that was. How one day I'll probably miss my current kitchen, too. And how that was fine (and would probably taste like jelly beans or, you know, 'anxiety'). 

Pure Coincidence

I thought I saw Kathi today. Kathi with an i. Kathi from college. I was waiting for my coffee when I saw her standing in line. It's been many, many years, but this woman had Kathi's nose. Then, when she turned, I saw that she also had Kathi's eyes. And I felt a pang of recognition. Her voice wasn't Kathi's. But it didn't matter, because otherwise she was practically Kathi.  

I thought about it carefully. I knew that if I said anything to Kathi, there would be no going back to the not knowing whether or not she was Kathi. And, as obvious as it seems that confirmation would be the better thing, the fact that there is no going back to the state of 'not knowing' had to be carefully considered. 

And I knew if I said anything that the next few minutes would be very different than I had imagined them to be. And I had to decide what was more important to me: a few minutes of dark roast coffee with a hint of cinnamon and nothing else going on–or a few minutes of reconnecting with Kathi. Long lost Kathi. Kathi with an i.

If I tapped Kathi on the shoulder, she and I would scream and hug and start talking very loudly and animatedly. It would be like no time had passed at all. I'd find out that she had indeed gone successfully forward in the fashion industry (as evidenced by her amazing suede boots and what looked like $10,000.00 bag). And I'd explain how I hadn't (as evidenced by my disposable drug store mittens and back-pack by Bic). 

We'd laugh. We'd suddenly remember the instructor that had made our lives so miserable. And I'd be able to finally tell her how I went back to school years later and had that same instructor all over again! Oh, the exquisite irony. And Kathi would just die at the mention of this. Just. Die. And my mind would be blown by a flood of memories. Of course! Of course! How could I ever forget?

We'd trade email addresses and promise to get in touch. We'd say goodbye and go our separate ways. Later, I'd look at her business card and marvel that her handwriting on the back was exactly the same as I had remembered. 

And, I would wonder if I hadn't somehow predicted all of this. Hadn't Kathi crossed my thoughts a few times recently? I'd chalk it up to something slightly more interesting than pure coincidence. Like synchronicity. Or something about the Collective Unconscious.

Still, should I say anything? It felt scary to break the status quo. What was I afraid of? Why was I so un-spontaneous? Why couldn't I simply run into someone and be happy to reconnect? Why couldn't I be glad for life's surprises? Why did this kind of thing always provoke such anxiety in me? What on earth was the matter with me? 

So, as I started to say, "Excuse me, is your name Kathi?", my brain screamed, Wait! Let's think about this! Even if this person is Kathi, it's unlikely that this will be anything short of awkward and uncomfortable. Besides, were there not solid reasons that we drifted apart in the first place?

Then again, what are the chances of ever running into her again? I've been thinking a lot about the people I've lost touch with, lately. And Kathi was quite dear to me at one time.

"Excuse me, is your name Kathi?"  

"No", she said, "Sorry."

"Oh, no problem." 

I sat down at the window with my coffee for a few minutes, just as I had imagined I would. I did half expect Kathi to come through the door, though. It felt inevitable. And if she did? I was ready.

Consider Raisin Toast

I'd like to to take this opportunity to recommend the reader sit back and please consider raisin toast. I made two slices of raisin toast for myself earlier today (with butter–it was magnificent) and am here to report that I have zero regrets regarding the making of raisin toast today. The current loaf of raisin bread that is in our bread box (note: our bread box is actually a bread drawer) has not been denied the very real, often ignored cinnamon aspect of raisin bread. So, the pronounced cinnamon effect (pronounced to me, anyway, due to my oddly inferior past experiences with raisin bread) caused me to stop and think about cinnamon for a whole ten minutes. Thus bringing cinnamon to the forefront of what can only be referred to as my 'cinnamon brain'. 

It was so great.

Later, having broken out of my cinnamon reverie, I placed two slices of the raisin bread into our forty year old 'Toast-R-Oven'. We had bought it second hand five or six ago. It turns out, the exact same toaster oven that my family had when I was little is the exact same toaster oven my SO's family had when he was little! We know it will break down any day, but so far, so good. And, you can watch the whole process of toast toasting through the toaster oven's window. It's so exciting. The Toaster-R-Oven really is just an Easy Bake Oven for grown ups, if you think about it. I should also mention that if you do chose to watch the toast while it is toasting, it won't seem like anything is happening for a long time, which may become frustrating. But then, all of a sudden, the toast will begin to change color and brown and crisp and it will smell gloriously like cinnamon and raisins. This will seem 'sudden' if you happen to give up, like me, and look away from the toaster for even a second. However, if you manage to keep your eyes on the toast the entire time, you will see a very subtle progression that is not only fascinating but oddly reassuring. 

Winter Wear

I've been having flashbacks: it's winter but for some reason I'm wearing a paper thin coat. A little single-layer-of-fabric deal that doesn't even have buttons; that doesn't even have a belt. It's a coat designed to be held closed (to be clear, dramatically closed. With one hand while jumping across puddles. Or traipsing through the streets). It's a smock, if I'm honest. A summer smock so diaphanous and lightweight that it would probably melt if I ever wore it out in the rain.

Yet, I wore such a coat through many winters. Through all of the winters. I froze. And I accepted it. Discomfort was just part of Winter; just part of fashion. So, my shoes, which by February were destroyed by the salt, were, in the interim, continuously wet and soggy. And my gloves, which were really these mesh, fingerless decorations that had come free with a bag of marshmallows, were quickly tucked away into one's tiniest coin purse when not in use (or, as it happens, eaten for one's impromptu breakfast as gloves like these were typically fabricated from things like rice candy).

Hats? Hats were the known destroyers of hair-dos. Layers? There wasn't room for any layers beyond those of one's already lightweight clothing beneath one's already lightweight coat. Boots? Boots would be just more things to lug around. And I already had a handful of Skittles in one hand and a micro-purse in the other–which kept my single Altoid and as many as eight dollars organized quite nicely. No, I was cold. Very, very cold. But then, *one day, as is the case with so many things, all of that changed. And I started dressing for the weather. And it was wonderful. And warm.

*Last Tuesday.

Looking Up

Looking up
through dirty winter windows
the sun seen almost by mistake
as it really is
just a glimpse
of a cold hard beam of light
not some loving, sparkling
lemon wedge in the sky
smiling joy onto the world
so much as something
unstoppable;
so much as something 
unknowable.

Prop Cake

High white cake crowned 
with red raspberries
leaning a bit to one side
three layers of inscrutable
soft vanilla crumb 
filled with luscious red raspberry 
expertly frosted 
a clean white canvas to adorn 
with the merest of painterly flourishes! 
It was a cake.
A cake to behold.
A cake to end all other cakes.