Sunday, March 11, 2007
by Amanda.
My infrequent visits to the post office have been known to trigger homicidal rage.
There was that one time that a nasty clerk made me cry on my birthday. She kept yelling at me to get back in line. This occurred after I had walked up to the unoccupied window twice to be served, having no idea that there was some man whose turn it was. Never mind that he kept leaving the periphery, as if done with his business… I had to wait for him to wander away for the final time before the clerk pointed at me to step forward. My jaw was clenched and I gave her the package slip without a word. She spent eternity looking for it. “Just to spite me,” I thought. When she found it, she carelessly dropped it on the counter and shoved it in my direction. It was a birthday package from home. There was a picture of me hanging on a tree on the side of the box. The words, “Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you! You look like a monkey, and you smell like one, too!” danced before me in my mom’s handwriting. I was so angry about that mean old bitch treating me and my care package so disrespectfully.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
by Amanda.
I’m feeling a bit empathetically (or should I say empathically - they’re both in the dictionary) overwhelmed with stuff happening to some people I care about now.
Monday, January 15, 2007
by Amanda.
“This is a candid photo,” my mom said when she handed me this photograph. As if I couldn’t tell with all the men not looking at the camera, while the women do. “Look at those heels!” she laughed and pointed at the stilettoes on my great-grandmother, her grandmother.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
by Amanda.
Under it, in the album of the plastic sucking noise whenever opened, she wrote, “Second thoughts?”
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
by Amanda.
Perhaps it was the giddiness of staying in a five-star hotel or maybe the discombobulation of random cool pecks on the cheek by people I’ve yet to meet. I’m not used to that, nor do I understand how everyone thinks it’s sophisticated rather than invasive. In fact, the only one whom I was okay with this familiar greeting is maybe that one co-worker of Cade’s who took a sip of my mojito over the summer. He and Cade.
Sunday, January 7, 2007
by Amanda.
Saturday mornings, Megan woke up first. She claimed Daddy’s chair directly across from the tv; I settled for the couch. We’d yet to reupholster its brown ribbed and pilled surface. It was comfortable and always had throw pillows that made do, made it presentable enough until it could be replaced with something better and more expensive.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
by Amanda.
Home is where the heart is and the dog and the embarrassing naked baby pictures, not to mention that familiar bellow of “WHO’S ON THE PHONE?!” as soon as the phone rings, minutes before it is possible to know who exactly has called. (This was actually true before caller id, now most of the time I actually can identify who has called, even if just by reading off a mysterious phone number).
Sunday, December 10, 2006
by Amanda.
The fifth was the eleventh anniversary of my grandfather’s death. I never once had an extensive conversation with him, though I remember spinning round and round on the barstools at his house. I remember going with my mom to deliver a Father’s Day cake every year, too. Who the man was, I mean, besides Mama’s dad, was something I never knew.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
by Amanda.
No macaroni and cheese this year. No Pillsbury crescent rolls, either. I joined Cade for my first real Yankee Thanksgiving. (Thanksgiving in NYC last year doesn’t count - the pies were from Fairway)! Other than the absence of a few familiar processed dishes, it was pleasantly ho-hum. Home-hum, even.
