The shoulder in question
Inexplicable pain without causation. No fall. No injury or accident. And as of yet, no definitive diagnosis. A torn Rotator Cuff? A pinched nerve? A strain? A sprain? Family doctor, orthopedic specialist, radiology, pharmacy. physical therapy. Repeat. The days are blurring into doses of time. A few hours of sleep here, there. A few pills. The only constant: the couch, my ass.
Try as I might, writing isn’t exactly paying the bills here at the casa de groovy. The dreaded day job, despised as it may be, is barely keeping me afloat on the great sea of financial ruin. But as of July 11th, it will be sink or swim–when my employer of nine years decides to either go back to the bargaining table with my union or to go for the lockout and send us to the unemployment line. It aint lookin good.
In all the chaotic back and forth arguments, meetings, pamphlets, automated messages and now the worst feeling in the world–waiting–the arrival of summer is upon me without much fanfare. Hot days, cold drinks. Concerts and parties with friends. Trips to exotic destinations. Ah. Yes…
Ahem.
I can barely make minimum payment on the bills, let alone afford such luxuries as vacation. When the economy takes a nosedive, inevitably so does the concept of a social life. So what am I to do? Count the moths fluttering from my pockets? Chitchat with the creditors? No. I will not sit idly by while the summer slips by without acknowledgment. This I vow right here and now, dear readers. With this thought in mind I have fashioned a summer itinerary of sorts. Forget Cancun. Drop the bar-hop. Everything you need is right here…
It was never easy splitting bilateral beliefs in God. School and home. Methodist. Catholic. That was the great divide. Educated within the confines of Catholicism, born and raised Methodist. Every Sunday, with freedom from Indulgences, saints and the proposed 8th Wonder of the Ancient World, transubstantiation—I downed my shot of Welch’s and Wonder bread, the symbolic body and blood, without the slightest of hesitations.
In one of my favorite dialogue exchanges within the movie Ghost World, Enid (Thora Birch) visits her friend Rebecca (the much-hyped Scarlett Johansson) at work in a hopping mainstream café, ala Starbucks. Rebecca is behind the counter, taking coffee orders from the no-nonsense snobs who are vehemently opposed to being offered biscotti. “God, how can you stand all of these assholes,” Enid asks. To which Rebecca replies, “I don’t know some people are okay, but mostly I feel like poisoning everybody…You’ll see…you get totally sick of all of the creeps and losers and weirdos.”
I chuckle throughout the movie, but it is the true to life observational humor that gets me thinking just how accurate this dialogue really is when it comes to retail work and all of the weirdos that come with it. In the nine years I have been employed at a local supermarket, I have collected a cult following of strange characters. Conspiracy theorists, organic obsessed shoppers who want to trade tofu recipes, fifty-something men who find me (or judging by their lack of eye contact, my chest) just “charming.” I don’t know how exactly these encounters came to be. And furthermore, I don’t know these people have come to confide in me, just a stranger in the supermarket helping them find their groceries.
Usually I try to indulge these characters in conversation, for the sake of their own sanity. But more often than not, this means twenty minutes of my time lost to rambling nonsense… followed by utter confusion… with a heaping side order of splitting headache. But there is one illusive stranger who, for nine long years, I’ve longed to speak with. To my knowledge he has never actually set foot in the store. I’ve only ever seen him outside. Digging through the trash cans. Drinking the found contents of disposed beverages. Sadly, I can’t say this is atypical….say, for a homeless inner city soul searching for nourishment. But I also can’t say that I’ve ever seen the events narrated, in the third-person by a man in neatly pressed tux.
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My sister, a nineteen-year-old fashionista just bursting with optimism, scared me stupid the other day with a hefty dose of reality that I simply must share.
She was checking her Facebook for messages and the usual status updates when she stumbled upon a girl she knew from high school. With her head shoved into the refrigerator, foraging for a midday snack, she gives me the scoop. At 19, this girl is now married, with a baby already in progress.
Sad, but decidedly not shocking. With a desensitized shrug, I listened as my sister went on with her Facebook finding. “Oh, and her profile…. Her interests, all two of her interests are drinking and being skinny.”
While I am compelled to categorize drinking as a mere activity, not necessarily an interest, or at the least, not an interest with any intrinsic value, “being skinny” simply cannot qualify as an interest, right? Right!?
(Disclaimer: I am of the plus-size persuasion and am skeptical of the skinny ‘n’ proud mentality, like it deserves some kind of honorary medal. Still, I hold no bias in this particular discussion. Hell, I wouldn’t list buffets as an interest.)
With this frightening thought in mind, this freelance writer with a fresh stock of cynicism, present to you:
MY TOP FIVE FAVORITE INTERESTS (THAT ARE LIKELY TO NEVER INCLUDE ALCOHOLISM OR ANOREXIA)
1) Reading: Feminist, psychoanalytical, indie publishing, graphic novels, zombies…I’m pretty eclectic.
2) Record Shopping: Girl garage rock and obscure compilations, specifically. i.e., Copulating Blues and Children’s Songs from Japan.
3) Thrifting: As far as I’m concerned, one can never have enough grandma sweaters.
4) Crafts: Sewing, doodling, making zines.
5) Obsessively Collecting Cute Things: Toys, stationery, lawn ornaments. Though I should mention that I have been told some of my so-called cute conquests borderline on deranged.
Epilogue…
My sister is still peering inside the refrigerator. My Dad, washing dishes nearby catches wind of our conversation. His hand still sudsy, reaches from the sink to adjust his glasses on the bridge of his nose. The water from the faucet comes to a halt, as he looks to me and says, “drinking and being skinny, huh? Probably in part, the reason she’s pregnant.”
Thanks, Dad. I’ll never wonder just where I acquired that dry wit we love so much.
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