MishMosh Life

I’m settled into the flat on Thursday, housesitting, organising, breaking up fights between the terrier and the big white dog who sits and drools over her, wanting her, needing her…knowing she’ll never give him the time of day.

I know how he feels. Unrequited love sucks. I’d offer him my way of dealing with it, but, chocolate kills dogs.

Instead, he lies on the ground next to the black hassock she’s on top of, chuffing his breath, rolling his eyes upwards as she studiously ignores his existence. Earlier in the park, he took his leash in his mouth as he likes to do, and she grabbed the end of it, growling and pulling it in a tug of war; her ten pounds against his 75.

He let her win. I wanted to say, “Don’t you have any gumption?? Where are your bal...?” Then I remembered the vet had removed them, and dropped the conversation. Besides, I looked a bit loony in my beret and coat, with my scarf whipping about, a blind dog walking into my legs, backing up, then walking back into them…talking to a love struck pit bull and a Westie who runs the show.

It has been the best of days. More things done, an hour spent at Staples…I shiver at the memory…papers in folders, a storage compartment now neat and tidy, and I found a place that sells Crunchie bars.

I bought three of them.

I’ve already eaten two.

Finding Staples was a trek…pardon me while I adjust my jeans as I sit here typing…funny, they weren’t tight before the Crunchie bars…anyway, I set out down the street, as I’d been told it was only a few blocks away.

They lied…every couple of blocks, I’d look to see the friendly red store front that was Staples. None around….so, I’d ask. “It’s just beyond the Starbuck’s.” was the usual reply.

What a stupid, stupid answer. Saying something is beyond the next Starbuck’s, or across the street from Starbuck’s, or around the corner from Starbuck’s or to take a right or left at the Starbuck’s is akin to telling someone to do the same thing at the Mormon church in Utah.

Which one?

I found out it’s the one two blocks past the old Emigrant’s Bank. I know it’s the Emigrant’s Bank because I tend to look up at buildings when I walk, especially in the older areas, you find a number of things on the buildings that say what they used to be. You have to wonder how many people lived in the area, how many of them had their savings in those kind of banks. Did it fail in 1929? Did they lose everything? I stood outside it for a minute, wondering how lives where changed.

Then, I saw it…STAPLES.

The hell with old lives and sad or happy stories, fortunes made and lost..that was years ago. I had STAPLES…and cash.

Pushing my cart, smelling the paper products, caressing the organising supplies, I spent a happy hour humming and wishing the world well. Then, I saw it….lime green, slightly scratched…dated for 2007. A new DayTimer…perfect for the new job.

I am a DayTimer whore. I have a purse sized one, in a beautiful brown Coach case…bought on eBay for a pittance…a maroon one I use when I’m in production, that I can refill…one on my phone that I have no idea how to use, and here was one in lime green leather with scratches.

It must be mine.

At the checkout, they wanted $21.95. No way was I going to pay full price…it was scratched, this is March, and, well, I never pay full price. I asked for the manager who offered me 10%. I stared. 12%? I stared some more. When the price hit $14.00, I pulled out my card and the lime green DayTimer was mine.

Going home put me past Olivia’s, a little food place that was not well thought out when it was designed. You push the door open, allowing a blast of icy air right onto the cash register area. The girl operating it (who speaks 15 ½ words of English) has on a down coat, two scarves, a hat and a pair of gloves with the fingers out. To leave Olivia’s, you put your ass onto the door, curve your back, plant your feet and puuuuuuuuush against the wind to get out. Thankfully, the pizza made up for the asinine entry system.

I went into a ‘Western’ store owned by an Israeli who scuffs up the toes of the overpriced boots he sells with sandpaper, and does a bad job in the process. While there, a woman approached me and asked where had I purchased my own boots, as they were aged perfectly... and, could she buy them from me. I advised her I'd aged them myself, and they weren't for sale. The next question came from her and the owner.... how had I aged them?? Ummm, I wear them all the time, every day almost for two years, that will pretty much do it. They both looked stunned. Next on my stroll home in my now fashionable boots, I bought my favourite NYC snack, hot coated almonds and was greeted at the door by three dogs who think I’m pretty spiffy. Unless I die, then I’ll be dinner.

I can only think of one thing that would make this city almost perfect….drinks and a conversation filled with a variety of subjects, including Limbo. I don’t, however, want it with anyone who has asked me out so far. I said it had to be almost perfect, not acceptable.

Ha!