death, taxes, pollen, and good friday
Yesterday I tried to go to the library. I tried as hard as I could. I dressed up all nice and got in the car and stopped at the gas station to clean the windows (the window-sprayer dothingies don't work and never have, so in pollen season it's damn near dangerous every morning and come Monday I am dragging that car to the mechanic all GIVE ME WATER SPRAYING OR GIVE ME DEATH because, seriously, I'd do better with my head stuck out the window, and then I could get goggles and a pilot cap) and I even asked people to recommend books I should get.
But they were closed. CLOSED. I pulled in and parked and noticed a few kids hanging around the entrance, one on a metallic blue cellphone.
"They're closed," one of the kids told me. Let me explain this kid. He was a Wensleydale. To wit: "The owner of a voice like that would be the sort of person who, before making a plastic model kit, would not only separate and count all the pieces before commencing, as per the instructions, but also paint all the bits that needed painting first and leave them to dry properly prior to construction. All that separated this voice from chartered accountancy was a matter of time." He was a bit roundish and bespectacled and was very cleanly groomed, in a little white polo shirt tucked into shorts.
"What the hell'd they do that for?" I asked rhetorically, before realizing that as a Responsible Adult, I am not supposed to say "hell" to other peoples' kids.
The Wensleydale huffed and, in a death-and-taxes voice that I've only heard from the old and tired of it all, grumbled, "Budget cuts."
I cracked up, because when was the last time you heard an elbow-height kid grumble about budget cuts?
"No, really!" the Wensleydale said. "That's why they're closed!"
"I believe you," I told him, "it's just.." and I waved vaguely and giggled my way back to the car.
I climbed into the car - it's April now, so I want aircon when I can get it - and used the Google 411 to get hold of the library (really, this thing is brilliant, y'all should use it) and learn that they were closed "for the weekend," which I assume involves this Easter thing somehow. Then I decided to tell Twitter of my misfortune when a white bespectacled Shape loomed near my window. I turned Van Morrison down and opened the window.
"I don't mean to be an inconvenience," said the Wensleydale, or he said something like it, "but can I borrow your phone? I need to call my dad."
At this moment I felt a deep and abiding nerd-sympathy for the Wensleydale, because I was also one of those weird kids who had an easier time talking to strange adults than children I knew. Sixteen years ago, I was that kid.
"I'd offer you a ride," I told the Wensleydale, "but since I don't know you I think that's illegal. Here you go." I closed out of the text and handed my phone over. (Let it be noted that my phone's wallpaper right now is this photograph. At least he's clothed, right?) He made his call, wandered away around to the front of the car (for privacy I suppose,) then handed it back and thanked me, very politely. I asked if he'd got ahold of his dad, and he said yes, and I bade him good luck and was on my way.
So then I went to the thrift shop and got a blue batik dress that has fringe on the bottom and is printed with fish skeletons.
But they were closed. CLOSED. I pulled in and parked and noticed a few kids hanging around the entrance, one on a metallic blue cellphone.
"They're closed," one of the kids told me. Let me explain this kid. He was a Wensleydale. To wit: "The owner of a voice like that would be the sort of person who, before making a plastic model kit, would not only separate and count all the pieces before commencing, as per the instructions, but also paint all the bits that needed painting first and leave them to dry properly prior to construction. All that separated this voice from chartered accountancy was a matter of time." He was a bit roundish and bespectacled and was very cleanly groomed, in a little white polo shirt tucked into shorts.
"What the hell'd they do that for?" I asked rhetorically, before realizing that as a Responsible Adult, I am not supposed to say "hell" to other peoples' kids.
The Wensleydale huffed and, in a death-and-taxes voice that I've only heard from the old and tired of it all, grumbled, "Budget cuts."
I cracked up, because when was the last time you heard an elbow-height kid grumble about budget cuts?
"No, really!" the Wensleydale said. "That's why they're closed!"
"I believe you," I told him, "it's just.." and I waved vaguely and giggled my way back to the car.
I climbed into the car - it's April now, so I want aircon when I can get it - and used the Google 411 to get hold of the library (really, this thing is brilliant, y'all should use it) and learn that they were closed "for the weekend," which I assume involves this Easter thing somehow. Then I decided to tell Twitter of my misfortune when a white bespectacled Shape loomed near my window. I turned Van Morrison down and opened the window.
"I don't mean to be an inconvenience," said the Wensleydale, or he said something like it, "but can I borrow your phone? I need to call my dad."
At this moment I felt a deep and abiding nerd-sympathy for the Wensleydale, because I was also one of those weird kids who had an easier time talking to strange adults than children I knew. Sixteen years ago, I was that kid.
"I'd offer you a ride," I told the Wensleydale, "but since I don't know you I think that's illegal. Here you go." I closed out of the text and handed my phone over. (Let it be noted that my phone's wallpaper right now is this photograph. At least he's clothed, right?) He made his call, wandered away around to the front of the car (for privacy I suppose,) then handed it back and thanked me, very politely. I asked if he'd got ahold of his dad, and he said yes, and I bade him good luck and was on my way.
So then I went to the thrift shop and got a blue batik dress that has fringe on the bottom and is printed with fish skeletons.