In front of me a young woman talks on her cell phone about this month’s water bill.

“Well, yeah, but I still don’t think I should pay as much. I mean, I don’t shower everyday. At most I take a shower 3 times a week. At most. And not a bath, but a shower. Not much water.”

pause

“Still. I only did laundry once last month. That didn’t use much water either.”

pause

“Could I at least get credit for the stamp I put on the envelope?”

He laid on the bed on the salesfloor, nursing his hangover, enjoying a respite from the overwhelmingness a trip to IKEA always brings.

I walked towards him, eager to rouse him and finish our trip. Enough of this dillydallying – let’s get out of here. Chop chop. No time to waste.

He looked up at me, smiling. “Hey, what’s it take to get room service around here?”

I nudged Stas. “What’s he eating?” I tilted my head to the right, to the giant white utility pick-up truck stopped beside us at the light.

He looked. Our top was down, as was his window. “Hey, what you got there?”

The elderly man smiled. “Ribs…” he drawled.

In his hand was a huge chunk of barbecued meat, glistening, smelling delicious.

“Where’d you get it?” I asked, eager to follow suit.

“Made it…” he drawled again, a trickle of sauce slowly making its way down his thumb.

This time it was Stas’ turn. “Got anymore?” he asked.

The old man smiled as he ripped off another bite. “Nope…” we heard as the light turned green and the man and his meat disappeared.

Emily handed me the tissue-wrapped package. I laughed because I already knew what it was; earlier in the day she had shown me the purses she had brought back from Argentina and asked me what color I wanted.

I feigned surprise. “I love it! It’s the perfect color!” We laughed and she instructed me to look inside. I opened the purse; I beheld my favorite brand of lip balm, which surprisingly you can only buy outside of the US, and a small black box, vaguely familiar.

I know it’s a Greek tradition to include money inside a new purse, is it an Argentinean one to include condoms? I looked at her somewhat perplexed.

“They’re not condoms – read the package!” she giggled.

GET IN! Lubricante Intimo

The best name for a product ever.

“Are you a member of our frequent buyer program?” he asked me as I purchased several birthday cards.

“No,” I said as I handed him cash.

“Would you like to be?”

I thought. One more card to keep up with. I join all these programs then lose the cards. “Sure.”

“You know, we have locations everywhere, not just in San Francisco. Even in the Midwest.”

I look like I’m from the Midwest? Oh, Lord.

… from New Year’s Day.

“I know where I think I was at midnight…”

The party invitation went out – bring out your best 80’s attire and re-experience the magic of prom, New Year’s Eve. Growing up in the south (in the 80’s) prom was a very belle-ish occasion. Big skirts (be careful of that hoop now, ya’ hear?), lots of ruffles, and single strands of pearls.

I thought back to my prom experiences. One year one girl had made everyone’s tongues wag because, horror of horrors… she wore a straight dress! Strapless, straight, and not pastel. In she sauntered on the arm of her college-aged boyfriend. Scandal.

As New Year’s Eve fastly approached, I dreaded shopping for a hoop skirt. Where would I even find a hoop skirt in San Francisco? And then it hit me. I would be her. I would be the one in the straight dress. And I just happened to have one in my closet, a one-shouldered, red snakeskin, slinky number I bought, but where else, in Las Vegas.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so glamorous. My hair teased up, my face sparkling, my red snakeskin hugging my curves with a fur stole tossed casually over my shoulders: Welcome, 2005!

The taxi driver’s accent sounded Arabic, but I wasn’t sure.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“Guess. You will never know.”

“What is your first name?”

“Aziz.”

I thought for a moment. “Morocco.”

He spun around, eyes wide open. “How do you know? You have had Moroccan man before?”

Do not use Uniball ink pens on an airplane. I uncapped my red pen to begin editing; moments later 19F appeared to be awash in blood.

The blanket I had given her was bagged in plastic, the thin, wispy plastic that dry cleaning returns in. The “bag” was a series of knots, a makeshift container created from a flat segment. I eyed it suspiciously and shrugged my shoulders as my dad picked it up.

“Mother, why is the blanket Lori made you in a bag?” Her pale blue eyes clouded over, staring at nothing we could discern, then she slowly turned her head to the plastic-encased blanket. Dad was about to repeat his question; we were never sure if she heard us or not, whether she wanted to hear us or not.

She slowly answered, “To keep it clean.”

Figures. Ever since I was a tiny girl, my memories of my Grandmother’s house were of plastic – thick, shiny plastic covering the couches and chairs, prickly plastic runners covering the carpet, slick plastic tablecloths covering the cloth tablecloths covering the linoleum kitchen table. Why would things be any different here in the nursing home?

“Lori made it for you to put over your legs, to keep them warm when you’re in your wheelchair. When are you going to use it?” Dad asked, much louder this time.

Without hesitation she shot him a “you crazy” look. “Law, when I take it out of the bag.”