Today was remarkably cold for us- snow was spotted in the skies. It wasn't proper, gutsy snow like what we had in Michigan, it was snow with no follow thru. The result of this arctic blast was that I abandoned my No Coats at Work policy* and went back into the house to get a jacket. I got to enjoy a favored pastime, much neglected since I moved to these balmy shores: pocket archaeology. Much can be told about a people by what she has left in her pockets. IKEA shopping list. Was I nuts?? Where was I going to have this bookcase? And then I went to the bookstore- Oh yes, that was a good book- where is it now? Move along. Petrified breath mint, no recollection. Must have been a restaurant meal- hope I wasn't someone's alibi. I always was impressed when I watched lawyer shows and they would ask " Where were you on the night of April 15, 1989?" And the witness, like, had an answer. My answer would have to be more along the lines of "I have no idea." I have no idea, actually, about any dates in my life, in particular. Probably the clear sign of impending neurological catastrophe.
* No Coats at Work is in response to several factors. Most importantly, my job takes me into the Germ Factory- land of unkillable Microbes. I won't even wear my work shoes into the house. They stay on the porch. Of secondary importance is that my hard won shared locker is a tiny cube shared with a night shifter. This means that her coat is already taking up all the oxygen in my locker, until she drags her weary ass home. Ridiculously, this tiny cube of a locker is equipped with a hook- a coat hook, in fact, although it is far to small to suspend anything larger that a sweat sock. This hook is precisely poised in the center of the cube, in a perfect location to snag sweaters, tear linings, and rip pockets as I jam my coat in and then try to extract it at the end of my wonderful eight hours and forty five minutes. The locker jam/extraction cycle also causes perma wrinkles. There is the lingering pain of a stolen leather jacket at my last job, when I foolishly left it on the back of a chair. The most important reason, however, is the candy butt Californians who bundle themselves ( and their helpless children) in arctic garb whenever it falls below 60 F. I refuse to let my blood thin out to this degree.
Finally, th phrase most likely to be on my tombstone:
Madness takes its toll; please have exact change...
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1 comment:
Amem to taking the harsh weather like a real person.
They come up to Oregon on a sunny day (50 degrees) and dress like the next ice age is come, and yet we are out there in our shorts, sandels and T-shirts.
Well Coats rock, and so does memory loss, beacuse I have come to that point allready.
Have a great week
The Sniper of Yamhill
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