I laid on my side on the cot in the small jail cell, scrunched almost into a fetal position, pondering how things had gotten this out of hand. What excuse could I offer before a judge for my behavior? Heretofore I had prided myself (and therein lies the key) on my pleasant, almost cherub-like disposition. I had made it my business to “roll with the punches” of life. And yet I had only entered the new year by days and my whole mentality just melted right down. Over 50 years of almost boring predictable stability and I shot it all to … yeah.
I am not surrendering responsibility for my behavior on a tiny virus that has up-ended the entire world. I will not say that the stress of listening to weekly political haranguing had worn me down that far to make me lose my temper. I cannot even give credit for my melt down to my run-in a few months ago with a bump on my skin that had the potential to be the other, in fact, the FIRST C-word, because, as I had anticipated, that had turned out to be a nuthin’ burger as well. Or perhaps the cloudless days of Central New York, end-upon-end, had put me in a funk. Nope. I aint gonna blame what happened on none of those things … I will let you be the judge …
December 31st approximately 11 am.
I ordered my nephew’s Christmas present online too close to Christmas. True fact. So, I while I traveled out of state to see my family, the delivery truck went to my own front door and left his present there. I didn’t ship it to his house directly because, frankly, I had also ordered an adorable front door mat that was too good a deal to pass up. So, I had been back in town maybe three days when I realized I needed to get my Act together and pack this thing up and ship it to him. I took a box that had recently been used to ship reams of paper. I put the gifts into the box. I wrapped the box sideways at the seam with duct tape, and over the top with clear cellophane packing tape. There were no other address markings on the box. It was in ship-shape, quite literally, and THIS is what the kid at the shipping store sad to me:
“Good morning. So, you want to ship this out, but I’m not sure we can send it like this. It’s not a shipping box.”
What do you mean? It’s sealed tightly. There are no other addresses on it. The labeling is clear. What do you mean?
And he repeated: “It’s not a shipping box.”
YES it is.
“I need to call my manager to check on this.”
Yes. You do. (and at this point, I am 3 and a half seconds from picking up this box and going to some other shipping office …)
And the manager lady comes and says: “This IS a shipping box. PAPER shipped in it.”
End of story. The box shipped and nobody got smacked. I went to work at the hospital and life went on … until 5pm.
December 31st approximately 5:30 pm.
I went to the wine store to buy something sweet and fruity for New Year’s Eve... and I do not mean tangerines. I brought two bottles to the counter and the guy rang me up instantly. I said to him, “So even with my mask on, at least you didn’t ‘card me’ …” He grinned and said something about knowing better. I smiled behind my smurf mask and replied, “Good for you, because I’m old enough to be your mother...” and we both laughed.
Then I got in the car and wondered if I would have been flattered if he HAD carded me... or at least argued that I couldn’t possibly be old enough to be his mother...
December 31st approximately 5:45 pm.
I walk into the grocery store to make my Big Purchase for my solo flight New Year’s Eve dinner: a lobster. I go back to the fresh tank and there is a kid working behind the counter sweeping; maybe he was in his late 20’s to early 30’s. He spins around like a dreidel – almost off balance – and asks how he can help me. (Now the million-dollar question is not HOW, but IF, anyone can help me...)
I need you to fish one of those lobsters out of the tank for me, about 2 pounds or so. Really, any one of them would be fine.
“I can’t handle the live lobsters. I’m just the janitor. I can get you something out of the meat case, but I can’t handle the lobsters. They told me not to handle the live lobsters.”
Well then, who can help do that for me?
“I don’t know. The butchers all just left for the evening.”
(Of course they did.) All right, I’m going to go to the front of the store and find Someone.
There is a girl sorting coupons or something at the front desk. She’s the one who re-directs traffic if the lines get too long at checkout stations. She cheerfully sprints to the Customer Servants’ Hiding Place (let’s be honest that’s what it really is) and pages A Guy to the meat department. I turn my cart around and try to get there more quickly just as I see him walk up to the janitor kid and say: “Why did you page me?” and the kid literally throws his hands up in the air and says: “I didn’t page you. I don’t know WHY they paged you back here.” The guy is annoyed. By now I am six feet behind him literally waving my arms in the air behind him and jumping up on my tip-toes saying: “It’s ME. I paged you. I need help!” And he turns toward me and says: “yeah?” with just that much enthusiasm.
Meanwhile at the live tank of lobsters a man and his little son are enjoying watching lobsters crawl over each other and fling their claws around. The father said out loud, “We are just looking.”
The store employee looks at the man and says, “You’re together? Then you don’t need me.”
And I shout, “WAIT! We are not together – I NEED YOU TO PULL A LOBSTER OUT OF THERE.”
And he turns to the janitor and berates him: “Why didn’t YOU help with this?” And the kid stammers again about not being able – I mean, allowed - to handle a live lobster. The store Big Guy seriously said to me: “I don’t know how to do that.” At which point I realized I had two first-class sissy babies waiting on me and I switched into my Teacher Mode:
They aren’t going to get you because their claws are banded. You just reach in, pull one out (tell me I’m not seriously giving these directions to this joker), put him IN a bag, put him ON the scale, weigh him, PRINT the tag, TAPE it on the bag and I will go away happy. Oh, and you may want to use that rake to pull him up out of the water.
“I know that.” (no, you didn’t.)
He fished a lobster out and then put it on the counter and tried to hold it down with one hand. It was at that point he said to our janitor friend: “I need a bag.” And the best they could do was a 30-gallon trash bag which he made no attempt to tie-off so that the lobster wouldn’t escape and crawl around my shopping cart. Not to worry, that’s why I carry bricks in my purse: I just set it on top of the lobster bag and anchored the whole thing down. I had the amazing foresight to go to the self-check-out lane to avoid any further complications with humans.
I went home, made dinner, never opened the wine and settled in to watch tv with the dogs.
The next day my notice came in the bank that my IRA was reaching its maturity date. If I did not direct them otherwise, they were going to roll it over into the same crappy amount of interest for the next year or two. Well, I might need that money for something I’ve got up my sleeve, so I needed to make a call and change their plan.
January 3, around 10:30 am
A quick phone call to the lending institution while I was taking a stretch break from work.
Hi, I just got a letter from you stating that my IRA is maturing on January 14 and I don’t want to renew it. I want you to roll the money into a savings account.
“Are you over 50? Because if you are, then I don’t have to charge a penalty fee.”
Yes, I’m over 50 and why would you have to charge a fee?
“Because you are taking it out before it matures. And we don’t have savings accounts, but I could put it into Shares for you.”
No. I am just CALLING you before it matures. Do you want me to actually come into a branch on January 14 to do this?
“Well, I will put a note in your file for Them, so they know you are going to do that.”
Great. I just didn’t want to somehow miss the window of opportunity and have you roll it over.
January 15th at some point in time.
I walk into the bank with my smurf mask on and I tell them: “I want my IRA. I want it in cash. In fact, I want it all in pennies and dimes. AND I want it within the next ten minutes so that I am not late to work.”
Someone pushes a button under the counter. They hand me a bag of dimes that was not the right amount and I fling them all over the floor and begin screaming: COVID MADE ME DO IT! IT’S TRUMP’S FAULT! IT’S BIDEN’S FAULT! IT’S PELOSI’S FAULT! IT’S THE GUY ON THE RADIO’S FAULT! IT’S THE GUYS WHO ARE AFRAID OF LOBSTERS AT THE GROCERY STORE FAULTS! I’M HAVING A MIDLIFE CRISIS AND YOU JAMOKES ARE NOT HELPING! I’M HANGRY! FRIENDLY’S CLOSED ALL THEIR LOCAL STORES AND I NEED A SWISS CHOCOLATE ALMOND SUNDAE RIGHT NOW! ONE OF MY DOGS IS IN SEASON AND I HAVE TO KEEP THE OTHER ONE AWAY FROM HER FOR TWO WEEKS AND I AM GOING OUT OF MY COTTON-PICKIN'-MIND! MY WHOLE LIFE IS UPSIDE DOWN AND IT IS ONLY THE SECOND WEEK OF 2022!
And then strong arms wrapped around me... but not the way I needed them to... “Ma’am, we will take care of you. Calm down.” And my shoulders wanted to fight against them being moved backwards and funny-like and the click of handcuffs sounded a lot worse in real life.
You have the right to remain silent.... (but isn’t that the whole problem?! I’m supposed to remain silent through all this idiocy around me?! I FINALLY just snapped.) Anything you say can, and will, be held against you in the court of law (you are so handsome, could you just say that one more time I like hearing your voice.) You have the right to an attorney (somehow, I don’t think she wants to take this call from me) … the courts will appoint one for you … (can I request Benny Colone from “Bull”)…
Words, droning on and on … sounds like a dog snoring in the other room …
January 4th 6:30 am.
As I get all this off my proverbial chest, I feel a being hover over my cot. I thought it was the sheriff, come to take me to the court. Hot breath in my face with a strange smell, like, dog food of some sort made me turn my head to the side and un-curl myself. I started to come to my senses: I was NOT in jail. Madeline Grace, with her soft chocolate-brown fur, looked down at me with those soulful cocker-spaniel eyes. I was home in my bed, truly and for real. I rolled my face into my pillow for a minute, almost fearful of what people would dish-out to me today. She butted my arm with her nose. I got up, offered my whole day and self to God, and bravely began a new day. And perhaps, that is all we can do.
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(BTW: In case you got confused: January 15th never happened. All of the other days DID, exactly as I told you!)
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