It seems unfair that my time starts sooner than yours. Midnight reaches me before you. Morning reaches me before you. A new day starts without you sooner for me than you. I open my eyes, check to see if the sun is out, and reach for my phone to determine the time. From there, I am left staring out the window attempting to push my grief away into the furthest depths of my mind. I pull the covers up for a moment and close my eyes. It's Sunday morning, which means I should be in your bed, still wearing my makeup from the night before. I should be in my panties and nothing else. I should be on the tenth floor of your apartment building, sleeping on your soft bed, body tangled in the covers. I naturally wake up at 7am as a reflex. My mind, afraid of oversleeping for work, will give off a startle reflex to check the time. You always wake up when I rustle about in bed. I switch positions and you will inevitably slide yourself up next to me, our bodies pressed together, sharing heat. I am always on the inside of the spoon. I never told you how much i loved feeling your heart beating up against my shoulder blades, how I loved catching you sniffing my hair, how i loved it when you'd kiss my neck before falling asleep with your arms wrapped around me until the alarm clock would go off and we'd make love before you had to go to work. It never mattered that we hadn't brushed our teeth or that we still smelled like the love we'd made the night before. I loved surrenduring my body to you on Sunday mornings. You'd have your way with me, I'd finish you off in my mouth, and then you'd jump in the shower and get ready for work. I would lie in the bed for a few minutes and listen to the water run in the shower, steam bellowing out as you cleansed yourself for the day.
But today you're miles away and you're still asleep in your beautiful Texas home. I lie awake in my bed, trying to conjur up the smell of you, the smell of us, and how your skin feels against mine. I miss your arms around me, turning around and facing you in the middle of the night, sharing blankey, and tangling my legs in yours. I miss your face being the first thing i'd see when i woke up, and the serenity of knowing i fell asleep in your arms.
My sadness begins. It's 7am and my startle reflex went off. My sadness begins because you're gone. But I'm not done with you yet.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Fishing
Fishing
My skin is taut. Every time I wrinkle my nose when I giggle, I can feel the crispy, sunburnt skin moving up and down. The squinting of my eyes feels like it leaves concaved crevices imprinted upon what will one day be crow's feet many years from now. My hot pink Minnie Mouse sunglasses are shielding my eyes from the sunlight reflecting off the ocean. The breeze is blowing my pigtails around, causing them to whip me in the face as they stream by. Everything around me smells like salty ocean water, worms, and dead fish; the sweet smells of summertime on Long Island. Seagulls are laughing overhead and lunge towards the seaweed scurrying around the parking lot.
"Can we go home yet?" I beg.
"No. We just got here," you reply dryly. I can hear the irritation in your voice and your are secretly mocking me inside your head because my maturity level has not yet surpassed the ability to remain still for more than thirty consecutive minutes.
I am growing antsy and want to do something else, but there's nothing else to do. There's nowhere to go swimming, no other kids around me to play with, and You are certainly not going to entertain me. This is Your time to relax and meditate, to be one with the earth. I am actually an interruption just by existing, for which I apologize. I remain silent and people watch as the line of my fishing pole, thirty yards out into the ocean, remains unwatched. A whale could bite down on my bait, but I would never notice until being pulled up from my fold-out chair and dragged into the depths of the ocean, never to be seen again except by flounder and other bottom-of-the-sea creatures whose names I do not know.
I am secretly praying for a tidal wave, a tsunami, a huge gust of wind to pick up my small frame and plunk me into the water without a sound, leaving everyone to wonder where I've gone and why. "Will she ever come back?" they would all wonder. And there I would be, trapped under the water, smiling at all the lobsters, crabs, bluefish, blowfish, and snapper waving at me, welcoming me to their secret world. They would play with me for all hours of the day and race me in the water and would always let me win. They would never forget to read me a bedtime story. They would always leave the nightlight on. They would check the closet for monsters before shutting the door for the night and they would most certainly not forget to crack the door open in case I needed to make an emergency escape.
"You should reel your line in," You tell me. And I do. I reel it in slowly with labored intentions and I allow my irritation to show through. You put another piece of bait on the end of my hook.
"You keep getting nibbled on. You should pay more attention."
I should pay more attention because You pay attention. You know I couldn't care less. You know that I could be at home splashing around in the pool, play ing with barbies, or putting on elaborate, ornate costume jewlery and pretending to be a princess in the comforts of the air conditioned living room.
But I am here. With you. And I'm bored out of my skull, but I'm doing it because I want you to love me so badly. You and I both know you wanted a son. You and I both know that I am the greatest disappointment you'll never escape. But here I am.
My hook has a fresh piece of freezer-burnt bait on it. The glassy eyes of the crusty fish 2 inches long is staring at me and I will have nightmares about this vision for years to come. I will close my eyes at night and see the petrified look in your eyes begging me for help, frozen over and the dialated pupils in your yellow eyes will haunt me because I couldn't be there to save you before your death.
I look behind me to make sure no one will be caught in the wrath of my casting off. Clearance for takeoff has been decided. I fling my arm forward and lose my grip for a moment. My hands are hot and sweaty from the sunblock. In slow motion, we watch it. Inch by inch, it leaves my grip and heads towards the water. There is goes. It's gone.
My fishing pole is in the water, bobbing up and down with the ocean. You can still see the symbol for Fischer Price on the right side of the pole. I begin to cry.
"I'M SORRY, DADDY."
I do not know it now, but this will be one of thousands of times I will cry out to you, exclaiming the same thing.Truth be told, I am sorry. I'm sorry for everything and nothing all at once. I'm so sorry I'm me. And I'm so sorry for you. And I'm sorry for me, for being sorry for being me. But you're not sorry. You're angry. And you will yell.
"Goddamn shit motherfucker. What the hell is WRONG WITH YOU?"
I'm sobbing. Snot is dripping down my face, my chest is heaving up and down and I'm half hyperventilating. The tears flowing down my cheeks cools the heat of my sunburn, but this is not relief; This is the ultimate punishment-humiliation and disappointment. The most horrible thing in life is the innocence of a child. We are sponges and we absorb everything you put into us; all the sadnesses we feel as an adult are planted in our pores during every crucial minute of every waking day.
You grab your pole.You fling your line out without checking behind you to see if anyone is there to get hooked on. You reel in your line furiously. I can smell the burning of the fiberglass as your fishing line heats up....you are so heated. You miss. You fling it out again. And miss again. Third time is a charm. You hit the tide just right and your line drifts towards mine. You reel in my pole and catch it with a crab net.
I still cannot stop crying. I am gagging on my tears at this point, unable to catch my breath, praying that you will not stop loving me for my mistakes, because I am imperfect. Because I love you and I cannot live if you do not love me: I am only a child. I am four years old and I need you. And I need you unconditionally. I need you even when you get mad and slam the door. I need you even when you've just gotten home from work and you're tired. I need you when you're fighting with Mommy and you both forget about me in the nurses's office of my school with a 103.2 degree fever because you were busy fighting. And I need you to teach me how to act on a date, and how to sit up like a lady at the dinner table, and how to feel beautiful with no makeup on because you assured me I am, and how to change the oil in my car so I am not always dependent on a man.
But that's not who you wanted to be.
As I stand there crying, you fling the pole on the ground. "Are you happy now?" you bark. I'm not and I never will be. I will always be sorry.
I have never forgotten that day. And though I am older and no longer go fishing with You, I feel like I am that pole. But on that day I fell into the ocean, the tide was not just right. And as I float in the water, I am watchin you out of the eye of my Fischer Price logo as I get further and further away from everything I can grasp. And all I can do is drift far, far away.
My skin is taut. Every time I wrinkle my nose when I giggle, I can feel the crispy, sunburnt skin moving up and down. The squinting of my eyes feels like it leaves concaved crevices imprinted upon what will one day be crow's feet many years from now. My hot pink Minnie Mouse sunglasses are shielding my eyes from the sunlight reflecting off the ocean. The breeze is blowing my pigtails around, causing them to whip me in the face as they stream by. Everything around me smells like salty ocean water, worms, and dead fish; the sweet smells of summertime on Long Island. Seagulls are laughing overhead and lunge towards the seaweed scurrying around the parking lot.
"Can we go home yet?" I beg.
"No. We just got here," you reply dryly. I can hear the irritation in your voice and your are secretly mocking me inside your head because my maturity level has not yet surpassed the ability to remain still for more than thirty consecutive minutes.
I am growing antsy and want to do something else, but there's nothing else to do. There's nowhere to go swimming, no other kids around me to play with, and You are certainly not going to entertain me. This is Your time to relax and meditate, to be one with the earth. I am actually an interruption just by existing, for which I apologize. I remain silent and people watch as the line of my fishing pole, thirty yards out into the ocean, remains unwatched. A whale could bite down on my bait, but I would never notice until being pulled up from my fold-out chair and dragged into the depths of the ocean, never to be seen again except by flounder and other bottom-of-the-sea creatures whose names I do not know.
I am secretly praying for a tidal wave, a tsunami, a huge gust of wind to pick up my small frame and plunk me into the water without a sound, leaving everyone to wonder where I've gone and why. "Will she ever come back?" they would all wonder. And there I would be, trapped under the water, smiling at all the lobsters, crabs, bluefish, blowfish, and snapper waving at me, welcoming me to their secret world. They would play with me for all hours of the day and race me in the water and would always let me win. They would never forget to read me a bedtime story. They would always leave the nightlight on. They would check the closet for monsters before shutting the door for the night and they would most certainly not forget to crack the door open in case I needed to make an emergency escape.
"You should reel your line in," You tell me. And I do. I reel it in slowly with labored intentions and I allow my irritation to show through. You put another piece of bait on the end of my hook.
"You keep getting nibbled on. You should pay more attention."
I should pay more attention because You pay attention. You know I couldn't care less. You know that I could be at home splashing around in the pool, play ing with barbies, or putting on elaborate, ornate costume jewlery and pretending to be a princess in the comforts of the air conditioned living room.
But I am here. With you. And I'm bored out of my skull, but I'm doing it because I want you to love me so badly. You and I both know you wanted a son. You and I both know that I am the greatest disappointment you'll never escape. But here I am.
My hook has a fresh piece of freezer-burnt bait on it. The glassy eyes of the crusty fish 2 inches long is staring at me and I will have nightmares about this vision for years to come. I will close my eyes at night and see the petrified look in your eyes begging me for help, frozen over and the dialated pupils in your yellow eyes will haunt me because I couldn't be there to save you before your death.
I look behind me to make sure no one will be caught in the wrath of my casting off. Clearance for takeoff has been decided. I fling my arm forward and lose my grip for a moment. My hands are hot and sweaty from the sunblock. In slow motion, we watch it. Inch by inch, it leaves my grip and heads towards the water. There is goes. It's gone.
My fishing pole is in the water, bobbing up and down with the ocean. You can still see the symbol for Fischer Price on the right side of the pole. I begin to cry.
"I'M SORRY, DADDY."
I do not know it now, but this will be one of thousands of times I will cry out to you, exclaiming the same thing.Truth be told, I am sorry. I'm sorry for everything and nothing all at once. I'm so sorry I'm me. And I'm so sorry for you. And I'm sorry for me, for being sorry for being me. But you're not sorry. You're angry. And you will yell.
"Goddamn shit motherfucker. What the hell is WRONG WITH YOU?"
I'm sobbing. Snot is dripping down my face, my chest is heaving up and down and I'm half hyperventilating. The tears flowing down my cheeks cools the heat of my sunburn, but this is not relief; This is the ultimate punishment-humiliation and disappointment. The most horrible thing in life is the innocence of a child. We are sponges and we absorb everything you put into us; all the sadnesses we feel as an adult are planted in our pores during every crucial minute of every waking day.
You grab your pole.You fling your line out without checking behind you to see if anyone is there to get hooked on. You reel in your line furiously. I can smell the burning of the fiberglass as your fishing line heats up....you are so heated. You miss. You fling it out again. And miss again. Third time is a charm. You hit the tide just right and your line drifts towards mine. You reel in my pole and catch it with a crab net.
I still cannot stop crying. I am gagging on my tears at this point, unable to catch my breath, praying that you will not stop loving me for my mistakes, because I am imperfect. Because I love you and I cannot live if you do not love me: I am only a child. I am four years old and I need you. And I need you unconditionally. I need you even when you get mad and slam the door. I need you even when you've just gotten home from work and you're tired. I need you when you're fighting with Mommy and you both forget about me in the nurses's office of my school with a 103.2 degree fever because you were busy fighting. And I need you to teach me how to act on a date, and how to sit up like a lady at the dinner table, and how to feel beautiful with no makeup on because you assured me I am, and how to change the oil in my car so I am not always dependent on a man.
But that's not who you wanted to be.
As I stand there crying, you fling the pole on the ground. "Are you happy now?" you bark. I'm not and I never will be. I will always be sorry.
I have never forgotten that day. And though I am older and no longer go fishing with You, I feel like I am that pole. But on that day I fell into the ocean, the tide was not just right. And as I float in the water, I am watchin you out of the eye of my Fischer Price logo as I get further and further away from everything I can grasp. And all I can do is drift far, far away.
Mulch
Mulch.
It's a cold and windy morning. The weatherman forecasted rain for later this afternoon. You don't care. You don't pack an umbrella. You're walking your usual route to work. Turn right out of the house. Cross the street. Turn left and walk 5 blocks until you hit the train. Or the train hits you.
You should only be so lucky.
It smells like shit everywhere. Shit. Everywhere. You look around to track down its exact location. Homeless people? No. Dogs? No. You look down at your shoes. You look around. Nope and nope. "Where the fuck is it coming from?" you ask yourself. It's too early to be searching for shit. Usually, shit usually finds you, but it's 6 a.m. and you haven't even had my coffee yet.
This is how an external smells controls your insides. You are experiencing a visceral upheaval. Your stomach churns and gurgles. You mouth begins to water. You know the feeling; the feeling you get after a night of too much tequila. You wake up. Your head is pounding, your heart is beating too fast and too slow. The room is spinning and your mouth begins to water and you know you're going to vomit. You know that the maccaroni and cheese you ate for dinner at six o'clock with your friends is going to come back up in a neon- yellow-tequila stained stream that ejects itself from your body beyond your control. Your eyes will tear up and you'll wipe the snot away from your nose after you're done losing control.
Or maybe you've already lost control and this is the only way you get it back.
Flash back to the smell of shit.
You take a deep breath to calm your insides, but this only makes things worse. Your tounge flexes itself inside your mouth, pushing iteself against your lips in a protest against the smell. Your stomach muscles tighten and pull up inside your ribcage. You're dry heaving. And you're laughing.
It's like a sick joke that everything on the outside should smell like how you feel on the inside: like shit. The irony hits you and you cannot stop laughing on the inside. You shake your head and wish that someone else found it as funny as you. This city that has sucked the life out of you finally smells like what it is: Shit.
You move out of the way for a mother pushing an SUV sized stroller and step in a flowerbed surrounded by what it all really is: Mulch.
It's a cold and windy morning. The weatherman forecasted rain for later this afternoon. You don't care. You don't pack an umbrella. You're walking your usual route to work. Turn right out of the house. Cross the street. Turn left and walk 5 blocks until you hit the train. Or the train hits you.
You should only be so lucky.
It smells like shit everywhere. Shit. Everywhere. You look around to track down its exact location. Homeless people? No. Dogs? No. You look down at your shoes. You look around. Nope and nope. "Where the fuck is it coming from?" you ask yourself. It's too early to be searching for shit. Usually, shit usually finds you, but it's 6 a.m. and you haven't even had my coffee yet.
This is how an external smells controls your insides. You are experiencing a visceral upheaval. Your stomach churns and gurgles. You mouth begins to water. You know the feeling; the feeling you get after a night of too much tequila. You wake up. Your head is pounding, your heart is beating too fast and too slow. The room is spinning and your mouth begins to water and you know you're going to vomit. You know that the maccaroni and cheese you ate for dinner at six o'clock with your friends is going to come back up in a neon- yellow-tequila stained stream that ejects itself from your body beyond your control. Your eyes will tear up and you'll wipe the snot away from your nose after you're done losing control.
Or maybe you've already lost control and this is the only way you get it back.
Flash back to the smell of shit.
You take a deep breath to calm your insides, but this only makes things worse. Your tounge flexes itself inside your mouth, pushing iteself against your lips in a protest against the smell. Your stomach muscles tighten and pull up inside your ribcage. You're dry heaving. And you're laughing.
It's like a sick joke that everything on the outside should smell like how you feel on the inside: like shit. The irony hits you and you cannot stop laughing on the inside. You shake your head and wish that someone else found it as funny as you. This city that has sucked the life out of you finally smells like what it is: Shit.
You move out of the way for a mother pushing an SUV sized stroller and step in a flowerbed surrounded by what it all really is: Mulch.
Dress Up
Coffee and Dresses
I love two things:
1-Coffee
2-Playing Dress-Up
I've loved playing dress up since i was a little girl. I remember having trunks full of dresses, high heels 10 sizes too big for my child-sized feet. I remember feather boas, oversized dresses, silly mail-order princess costumes, dance recital outfits, garage sale treasures from other girls' dress-up stashes. I remember the miss america sashes, the faux pearls, the Wet N' Wild red lipstick and blue eye shadow. I remember the play makeup sets. I remember the pictures I wanted taken of me. I remember feeling so wonderul getting dressed up with no place to go but to a "tea" (it was always water) party with my cabbage patch dolls with my little kid tea set my grandmother bought me. I would put a feather boa on all the dolls and put them in an outfit or two and then we'd sit down and have tea like ladies. I'd wear white gloves and everything.
I have since outgrown the cabbage patch dolls. And i no longer enjoy "tea." I do, however, love coffee. This morning I woke up with a strange desire to write, drink coffee, and play with my most beautiful clothes. It always makes me sad that the most beautiful clothes I own almost never get worn. I have a strapless pink dress that fits me like a glove, but I never have anywhere to wear it to. This afternoon I came home from an empty shopping trip to nowhere and decided to go through my closet. I saw the pink dress and I had the strongest desire to put it on. So I did. And it fit just like the first time I put it on. I pulled the zipper up and remembered to move my boob out of the way (okay, when I said it fits like a glove, i really meant "it's tight in the boob department). I wore this dress once to an actual event, not including the times i've put it on just to see if it still fits. It was to a Valentine's Day dinner/play night with a boy long gone. I remembered the way he looked at me in the dress and I became nostalgic about loves and lovers gone by. Will anyone else look at me that way? Or have I depleted the source?
My phone rang and broke my concentration. "Craig Home" the phone said. I answered. "Where were YOU last night?" he accusingly inquires. "You had a date last night!" I laugh. No, I scoff.
"No, I didn't. I was in bed by 11....alone, thank you!" I am amused by everyone's idea of me...the idea that I am this resilient red rubber ball that just bounces back no matter how hard or soft you throw it. My false front fools them all. On the outside, I am untouchable. I am the girl who loses her mother, loses every great love she's ever known, sabatoges everything good that happens to her and moves on without a trace of emotion. On the inside, I am the shaken bottle of Dom you don't want to open because you'll be covered with the contents. There are bits and fragments of heart, hope, and trust on the inside that would slash your flesh immediately upon arrival. But I don't let you see that. And I don't usually like for you to know it's there. I guess I am in a sharing kind of mood today. When the sharing comes on, it comes on strong. We call it "flooding" in the psych business. Maybe i'm flooding. It's the time of year where I start doing things like that...where beginnings and endings often have a habit of making themselves prevalent. There's a two year anniversary coming up. And a day that should be a two year anniversary coming up even sooner. Do you know that I still love you? Do you know that not a day goes by that I don't think about you? Do you think of me too?
A million others wait at my gate.
And I put on the black dress. Of all the articles of clothing I've ever bought, this one is the most scandelous. It's a long black dress...not long to the floor, but long past my knees. But it's a very thin spaghetti strap dress that hardly contains the flesh underneath. I've never actually worn the dress. It hasn't even been devirginized. The tag is still on it. It was on sale and it was beautiful and I had to have it. It is so much like many of the things in my life. Almost perfect. And kept almost perfect by never being worn or touched by me. So here I sit in the black dress, drinking my coffee...black.
I love two things:
1-Coffee
2-Playing Dress-Up
I've loved playing dress up since i was a little girl. I remember having trunks full of dresses, high heels 10 sizes too big for my child-sized feet. I remember feather boas, oversized dresses, silly mail-order princess costumes, dance recital outfits, garage sale treasures from other girls' dress-up stashes. I remember the miss america sashes, the faux pearls, the Wet N' Wild red lipstick and blue eye shadow. I remember the play makeup sets. I remember the pictures I wanted taken of me. I remember feeling so wonderul getting dressed up with no place to go but to a "tea" (it was always water) party with my cabbage patch dolls with my little kid tea set my grandmother bought me. I would put a feather boa on all the dolls and put them in an outfit or two and then we'd sit down and have tea like ladies. I'd wear white gloves and everything.
I have since outgrown the cabbage patch dolls. And i no longer enjoy "tea." I do, however, love coffee. This morning I woke up with a strange desire to write, drink coffee, and play with my most beautiful clothes. It always makes me sad that the most beautiful clothes I own almost never get worn. I have a strapless pink dress that fits me like a glove, but I never have anywhere to wear it to. This afternoon I came home from an empty shopping trip to nowhere and decided to go through my closet. I saw the pink dress and I had the strongest desire to put it on. So I did. And it fit just like the first time I put it on. I pulled the zipper up and remembered to move my boob out of the way (okay, when I said it fits like a glove, i really meant "it's tight in the boob department). I wore this dress once to an actual event, not including the times i've put it on just to see if it still fits. It was to a Valentine's Day dinner/play night with a boy long gone. I remembered the way he looked at me in the dress and I became nostalgic about loves and lovers gone by. Will anyone else look at me that way? Or have I depleted the source?
My phone rang and broke my concentration. "Craig Home" the phone said. I answered. "Where were YOU last night?" he accusingly inquires. "You had a date last night!" I laugh. No, I scoff.
"No, I didn't. I was in bed by 11....alone, thank you!" I am amused by everyone's idea of me...the idea that I am this resilient red rubber ball that just bounces back no matter how hard or soft you throw it. My false front fools them all. On the outside, I am untouchable. I am the girl who loses her mother, loses every great love she's ever known, sabatoges everything good that happens to her and moves on without a trace of emotion. On the inside, I am the shaken bottle of Dom you don't want to open because you'll be covered with the contents. There are bits and fragments of heart, hope, and trust on the inside that would slash your flesh immediately upon arrival. But I don't let you see that. And I don't usually like for you to know it's there. I guess I am in a sharing kind of mood today. When the sharing comes on, it comes on strong. We call it "flooding" in the psych business. Maybe i'm flooding. It's the time of year where I start doing things like that...where beginnings and endings often have a habit of making themselves prevalent. There's a two year anniversary coming up. And a day that should be a two year anniversary coming up even sooner. Do you know that I still love you? Do you know that not a day goes by that I don't think about you? Do you think of me too?
A million others wait at my gate.
And I put on the black dress. Of all the articles of clothing I've ever bought, this one is the most scandelous. It's a long black dress...not long to the floor, but long past my knees. But it's a very thin spaghetti strap dress that hardly contains the flesh underneath. I've never actually worn the dress. It hasn't even been devirginized. The tag is still on it. It was on sale and it was beautiful and I had to have it. It is so much like many of the things in my life. Almost perfect. And kept almost perfect by never being worn or touched by me. So here I sit in the black dress, drinking my coffee...black.
Dan/Xmas 1st post
"You made my heart smile"
I have my favorites everywhere I go. At Beth Isreal, it's Dan. Dan has stage four melanoma. He comes into the hospital three times a week for treatment. His right arm was removed this past year because of a tumor. He is still the nicest, sweetest person you'll ever meet. He is never without a smile on his face and he is an absolute inspiration. He was named Saucony's "Man of the Year" this year and ran the Boston city marathon, despite his condition.
***
The door opened around 9:45. I was in the back preparing the deposit. "Karen is in the back," I heard Dave say. I never particularly enjoy hearing my name said when I'm dealing with a large amount of cash, so I poked my head around the corner to see if "the kids" needed anything.
"Did I hear my name?" I ask. I see Dan and his friend and immediately I run over to the safe to set it so I can put the deposit away and finish it later. It's Saturday and I have all the time in the world to get it done. Besides, I would drop everything even on a busy day for Dan.
"Hello, handsome!" I yell. I refer to Dan as handsome because I learned, after the first time I said it, that it makes him smile like a schoolboy and blush. He smiles and perks up, giving me a little wave.
I walk over to my register and ask his friend, whose name I don't know because I'm too busy gushing over Dan to even pay attention to anyone else. Truth be told, the store could be on fire and if Dan was there, I wouldn't notice. "How are you doing?" I ask. He nods, which means he's having a bad day. He asks me how I am and I realize that his voice is very hoarse. Now I really know that he's having a bad day. Whenever he can't talk very well, it means he's having a rough day.
"Add shot for a red eye, please," I say to Cassie. She is busy making a mess of epoc proportions, so I walk over to the bar with Dan's coffee in hand, drop the shot, carefully place the lid on, and walk it back to my register.
"Anything else today, handsome?" He peers into the pastry case and I see him eyeing a cranberry bliss bar. I grab the tongs, give them a little tap together, which is my universal signal for "What can I get you from the case?" and slide the right door open. Thud. It taps against the opposite side of the case. I reach inside, grab the biggest cranberry bliss piece I can find and put it in a bag. "Will this do?" I ask. He smiles and nods. I place it on the counter, slide it towards him and proceed to ring it into the register. I discount everything. I could technically lose my job for this, but I don't care. I'm the boss today, so if anyone is going to reprimand me, it's going to be me.
"Your coffee is on me today," I say. I look up and he's beaming.
"How come?" he asks.
"Because you're my favorite! And I wouldn't say it if it wasn't true."
"You just made my heart smile," he says. He puts his hand over his heart and I can feel the lump in my throat forming. I dig my fingernails into my khakis and swallow it down. I refuse to allow the tears to well up in my eyes. This is a man who is dying and I made his heart smile with coffee. I am officially touched. "You're very special. Thank you."
He walks over to the condiment bar to add the milk and sugar to his coffee. I let out a sigh and head back into the office to finish the deposit. I take a little trip to the bank, drop it in the night box, and head over to CVS to buy Cassie and Dave some treats for working so well with me this morning. I grab some candy canes, hershey kisses, and marshmallow santas. I get back to the 'Bucks and throw my apron on, walk out onto the floor, and send Dave on his last ten. I see Dan and his friend through the plexiglass window sitting at one of the tables. I give him a wave and make a heart sign with my two index fingers and point to him and wink. He smiles and laughs. I get a kick out of this every time.
I begin fiddling around with the brewers, cleaning as I go. Dan walks over to the counter.
"You don't know what you did for me today. You made my day. Thank you so much. You really don't understand how special you made me feel." Once again, I feel the lump begin to rise. I allow the tears to fill my eyes this time, but I won't let them fall. His voice is so hoarse that I lean close to him so I can hear what he's saying.
"Dan, you make my day every time you come in here. I have to tell you though, I'm leaving next Saturday and going to a different store." He looks shocked and says, "I'll see you Wednesday."
This may be the last Christmas Dan ever sees and that makes my heart absolutely ache. I've been crying all day just thinking about it. This is not a customer. He is a customer, but he has touched my life. I'm going to ask Dan to sign my sneakers for me on Wednesday and I'm going to wear that pair in the next marathon I run. It was just a cup of coffee out of Starbucks' profits, but it made Dan's day. What else could I ask for? That, my friend, is gratification.
Dan, you make my heart smile.
Read about Dan's story here:
http://www.thebostonchannel.com/bostonmarathon/4382203/detail.html
I have my favorites everywhere I go. At Beth Isreal, it's Dan. Dan has stage four melanoma. He comes into the hospital three times a week for treatment. His right arm was removed this past year because of a tumor. He is still the nicest, sweetest person you'll ever meet. He is never without a smile on his face and he is an absolute inspiration. He was named Saucony's "Man of the Year" this year and ran the Boston city marathon, despite his condition.
***
The door opened around 9:45. I was in the back preparing the deposit. "Karen is in the back," I heard Dave say. I never particularly enjoy hearing my name said when I'm dealing with a large amount of cash, so I poked my head around the corner to see if "the kids" needed anything.
"Did I hear my name?" I ask. I see Dan and his friend and immediately I run over to the safe to set it so I can put the deposit away and finish it later. It's Saturday and I have all the time in the world to get it done. Besides, I would drop everything even on a busy day for Dan.
"Hello, handsome!" I yell. I refer to Dan as handsome because I learned, after the first time I said it, that it makes him smile like a schoolboy and blush. He smiles and perks up, giving me a little wave.
I walk over to my register and ask his friend, whose name I don't know because I'm too busy gushing over Dan to even pay attention to anyone else. Truth be told, the store could be on fire and if Dan was there, I wouldn't notice. "How are you doing?" I ask. He nods, which means he's having a bad day. He asks me how I am and I realize that his voice is very hoarse. Now I really know that he's having a bad day. Whenever he can't talk very well, it means he's having a rough day.
"Add shot for a red eye, please," I say to Cassie. She is busy making a mess of epoc proportions, so I walk over to the bar with Dan's coffee in hand, drop the shot, carefully place the lid on, and walk it back to my register.
"Anything else today, handsome?" He peers into the pastry case and I see him eyeing a cranberry bliss bar. I grab the tongs, give them a little tap together, which is my universal signal for "What can I get you from the case?" and slide the right door open. Thud. It taps against the opposite side of the case. I reach inside, grab the biggest cranberry bliss piece I can find and put it in a bag. "Will this do?" I ask. He smiles and nods. I place it on the counter, slide it towards him and proceed to ring it into the register. I discount everything. I could technically lose my job for this, but I don't care. I'm the boss today, so if anyone is going to reprimand me, it's going to be me.
"Your coffee is on me today," I say. I look up and he's beaming.
"How come?" he asks.
"Because you're my favorite! And I wouldn't say it if it wasn't true."
"You just made my heart smile," he says. He puts his hand over his heart and I can feel the lump in my throat forming. I dig my fingernails into my khakis and swallow it down. I refuse to allow the tears to well up in my eyes. This is a man who is dying and I made his heart smile with coffee. I am officially touched. "You're very special. Thank you."
He walks over to the condiment bar to add the milk and sugar to his coffee. I let out a sigh and head back into the office to finish the deposit. I take a little trip to the bank, drop it in the night box, and head over to CVS to buy Cassie and Dave some treats for working so well with me this morning. I grab some candy canes, hershey kisses, and marshmallow santas. I get back to the 'Bucks and throw my apron on, walk out onto the floor, and send Dave on his last ten. I see Dan and his friend through the plexiglass window sitting at one of the tables. I give him a wave and make a heart sign with my two index fingers and point to him and wink. He smiles and laughs. I get a kick out of this every time.
I begin fiddling around with the brewers, cleaning as I go. Dan walks over to the counter.
"You don't know what you did for me today. You made my day. Thank you so much. You really don't understand how special you made me feel." Once again, I feel the lump begin to rise. I allow the tears to fill my eyes this time, but I won't let them fall. His voice is so hoarse that I lean close to him so I can hear what he's saying.
"Dan, you make my day every time you come in here. I have to tell you though, I'm leaving next Saturday and going to a different store." He looks shocked and says, "I'll see you Wednesday."
This may be the last Christmas Dan ever sees and that makes my heart absolutely ache. I've been crying all day just thinking about it. This is not a customer. He is a customer, but he has touched my life. I'm going to ask Dan to sign my sneakers for me on Wednesday and I'm going to wear that pair in the next marathon I run. It was just a cup of coffee out of Starbucks' profits, but it made Dan's day. What else could I ask for? That, my friend, is gratification.
Dan, you make my heart smile.
Read about Dan's story here:
http://www.thebostonchannel.com/bostonmarathon/4382203/detail.html
memories I'd like to take with me
755 Boylston
Current mood: 
Grande decaf w/cup discount & bran muffin Fred
Venti Nonfat Latte Bill
Venti Nonfat Extra hot latte Justine
Decaf Venti sugar-free Vanilla nonfat caramel macchiato Janice
Venti drip flat lid Ann
Grande drip flat lid Wendy
Tall drip & cranberry muffin Brenda
Iced venti no classic coffee Mr. Lee!!!! (one of my top 10 fav's)
Venti triple blended Mocha Frap Lite Steve
Venti nonfat latte Doug
Tall latte Mike
Tall nonfat chai Ginger
Venti drip & apple coffee cake Justin
Tall drip + NY Times Jeremy
Quad espresso Paul
Grande nonfat TNL Michael
Tall nonfat chai Trish
Tall % I s+l latte Shelly
Venti Americano flat lid Michael
Iced Venti no classic BT + Brioche Anthony
Iced venti coffee Lisa
Grande Caramel Frap Leah
Quad grande latte Bill
Iced venti vanilla chai Eddie
Iced Venti french vanilla Americano Mona
Grande 1 SITR Latte Paul
Iced Venti Americano Bill
Iced venti soy chai Arthur
Iced grande no classic coffee Monica
Grande caramel macchiato Rory
Two iced venti no classic coffees Michael
Tall Latte Susan
Grande nonfat HC + 2 kids steamed soys at 85 degrees Marny
Iced grande latte Jon
Venti Vanilla coffee Michael
Iced venti vanilla coffee Mike
Grande nonfat latte Melissa
Grande java chip frap Jamie
Grande peppermint java chip frap Grant
Tall cappuccino Bart (husband of susan)
Iced venti no classic with room iced coffee Adam
Iced grande nonfat with whip Mocha Kathy
Grande soy latte Susan (wife of Adam)
Double tall nonfat cap + triple espresso Andrew
Venti Caramel frap affogato style Ben
Iced single venti soy chai Bree
Iced quad venti caramel macchiato Matt
Quad venti white mocha Kelly
Iced venti no classic coffee Eric
Iced grande vanilla 1splenda latte Tommy
Ever changing order Lailya the Dentist
Iced venti passion tea lemonade Daphney + Brent
Iced grande no classic coffee Rom
Iced grande no classic coffee Drew the stoner
Venti extra hot vanilla latte Dante
"Jumbo" Decaf Randall
Triple venti latte Robbie
Grande nonfat latte Wes
Venti nonfat latte Ryan
Decaf venti latte Eric (ryan's boyfriend)
Venti mocha mark
Iced venti coffee Kurt
Iced grande in a venti americano with soy John
Tall drip Eddie
Tall drip Ethan
Iced half-caf venti iced coffee Destiny
Iced venti sugar free vanilla coffee Martha
Iced decaf grande coffee Stephanie
Grande drip +900 Refills Helena aka Mom
Dopio splash Janet
Iced triple grande breve latte Matt
Tall drip & cheese danish+1Honey Ez
Tall drip +h2o eurotrash asshole at close
2 Toffee Almond Bar friday night drunk girl...Katie?
Grande Mild +Plain bagel & Butter Josh
Tall mild+pastry for here Fred
Venti drip John who is SOOOOO cute
Tall latte Silke
Grande x hot 1= latte Olga
Iced venti super lite ice White mocha Tom
Triple venti sugar free hazelnut latte Tom
Grande extra hot americano + pastry for here Eddie
..and so many more
I'm sure nobody really cares about all this, but as I get sentimental, I like to think of all my favorite folks and smile.
And i've been up since 4am. I think it's time for bed, kids. Goodnight!
pulled from an emo blog circa 2005
craptastic thursday
"When I fall it's always too fast and nothing ever lasts.
So I won't give you my heart this time.
It's made of antique glass.
I don't expect the world from you.
I expect you to fail me.
I keep my distance from your heart so when you're gone it won't derail me.
See, dont' you know it never lasts?
Please don't ask about my past.
If you want to know the girl inside then please get out your maps.
But your can't tour inside my heart.
Or get inside my head.
The closest I'll let you get to me is in the dark inside my bed.
I'll push you away and pull you on.
We'll get high, drink tonic and gin.
Then i'll disappear.
Yes, I'll be gone.
Don't worry-you won't remember me for long.
The memories you'll have will seem like bad dreams and my silent voice will begin to scream.
The girl once silenced will begin to speak.
So enjoy the time you have together.
Talk about life and the weather.
And she'll be gone by the end of the week. "
Sunday, June 15, 2008
my migration from myspace
After a 4 year run on myspace, I've decided to give my writing a new audience. Over the next few days I will be moving everything over here. I will be editing and working on some new pieces that I feel much more comfortable posting here-I'm not sure why, because I'm sure there are just as many creeps here as there are on myspace.
Everything I write is beginner-level. I have no formal writing training. I am simply a girl, a keyboard, and a creative mind (or not, depending on your judgment). I appreciate any and all constructive criticism, grammar notes, edits, etc if you would like to contribute.
I suppose before we get started I should tell you a little about me so we're not complete strangers.
I'm Karen. I'm a skincare educator/trainer for a spa and skincare company based out of Manhattan, New York. I was born and raised on Long Island. I attended Boston University on scholarship and have a degree in psychology/philosophy. I began my degree at BU in classical vocal performance, but lost the drive to sing when it felt like work. I stayed in Boston for seven years because I wanted to find myself. I never really did.
I am a jack-of-all-trades kind of girl. I have been a restaurant manager, Starbucks manager, funeral director apprentice, marketing ambassador for Vitaminwater, and I have been with Bliss for almost a year. I love working in education, because I get to write, perform, coach and train employees, and play with beauty products for free. It's a beautiful life.
Outside of work, I am a wife, a fantastic cook, an avid baker, a total clutz, and a comedian. The abridged version of me: I am an introverted extrovert.
Everything I write is beginner-level. I have no formal writing training. I am simply a girl, a keyboard, and a creative mind (or not, depending on your judgment). I appreciate any and all constructive criticism, grammar notes, edits, etc if you would like to contribute.
I suppose before we get started I should tell you a little about me so we're not complete strangers.
I'm Karen. I'm a skincare educator/trainer for a spa and skincare company based out of Manhattan, New York. I was born and raised on Long Island. I attended Boston University on scholarship and have a degree in psychology/philosophy. I began my degree at BU in classical vocal performance, but lost the drive to sing when it felt like work. I stayed in Boston for seven years because I wanted to find myself. I never really did.
I am a jack-of-all-trades kind of girl. I have been a restaurant manager, Starbucks manager, funeral director apprentice, marketing ambassador for Vitaminwater, and I have been with Bliss for almost a year. I love working in education, because I get to write, perform, coach and train employees, and play with beauty products for free. It's a beautiful life.
Outside of work, I am a wife, a fantastic cook, an avid baker, a total clutz, and a comedian. The abridged version of me: I am an introverted extrovert.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
