I owe you $10
“You can pay me tomorrow,” said the pretty African lady.
“Really?” I asked, “you don’t mind?” I checked all my pockets again for the wallet that wasn’t there.
“No,” she said, “just pay me tomorrow.”
Oh well, I thought, it’s my birthday. “Ok, I’ll be back tomorrow.” And I walked out with a sandwich, a salad, and a vitamin water.
Four days later I realized I hadn’t paid the pretty African lady, but it was Friday and the morning shift was long over. Next week, I told myself. Monday was Indigenous Peoples Day, so I went in today, a full eight days after I promised “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
I found the pretty African lady eating a green salad from a plastic container at the counter, walked up to her and said, “I owe you $10! I’m so sorry, I’ve been sick all week, and when I finally realized it was already Friday! I apologize!”
“Oh, it’s not a big deal,” she said, cash in hand.
“I wouldn’t have let you float me, but it was my birthday, so I felt entitled…”
“Oh!” she said, smiling her pretty smile, “I didn’t know it was your birthday!”
“Of course you didn’t,” I say, walking out with my falafel and caesar salad, “Thanks again!”
Requiem for a Bitch
The folks at BitchPhD are all signing off, and I can’t help but feel a little sad. At it’s height, it was a brilliant center for academic lefty feminist snarkiness. My own blog was pseudonymous for a long time, before SpanishPod came around and my personal life became a Web 2.0 marketing tool.
I’ve been quietly lamenting the passing of the personal blog era, when people I admired were just journaling and keeping distant friends in the loop; before blogging became all about top-five lists and calls-to-action. I doubt this little blog will ever be as big and influential as BitchPhD, but for a while it was great to have a big ally with daily readership well into four digits.
Yesterday I cooked up a big batch of longanisa that I had bought fresh at Seafood City. I had a stack of journals to grade, but it was my day off, and the sun was out… the journals could wait, my shower could wait… I brought the one chair I own out to the porch, and SLAM! the steel security door closed behind me, locked. And there I was, smelling like sleep and longanisa, wearing blue plaid flannel pants and some crazy bed head.
What about my lock box? Oh, I forgot to set it up.
I’m so locked out. I’m locked out az, bro.
I walked over to L’s place; he wasn’t home, but his house guest was helpful and let me make a call on his cell. I went over to see if N was home, and yay! she was, but boo! she didn’t have my spare key, because boo! I had never given it too her, because boo! I had my lock-box. Dang it. What she did have was the key to the storage, where we keep the aluminium ladder yay! So I climbed up the ladder up to the dining room window and dumped myself onto the floor.
As I got up off the floor and grabbed my keys, I thought, this place stinks of longanisa… and I need to vacuum. Guh.