Easy Does It – A Lullaby

I found this in an old composition book. I wrote this many years ago for a baby who is turning 33 minutes from now. Time flies indeed…

Easy does it, my child, my sweet delight
Be not afraid of the deep dark of night
Even in the dark His love shines so bright
Do not let bad dreams fill you with such fright

Trust that your Father’s arms do hold you tight
He holds you in His palm and in His sight
Close now your eyes and have faith in His might
Easy does it, my child, ’till morning light

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8th-annualc2a0slice-of-life-story-challenge-invite

Last Laugh

When I first scanned Facebook earlier today. I saw that various friends had already changed their cover photos (large banner type image seen behind a person’s profile picture – for non-Facebook users), to pastel colors or shades of green to herald in the coming of spring. I cannot say that I blamed them. I’ve posted my share of snark to Gaea, Demeter and crew bemoaning -okay bitching about- the weather, much to the amusement of my Facebook friends. While this winter was not a truly bad winter, at least not compared to last winter – which was brutal by NYC standards, it still was not a pleasant one. I, for one, am very glad we are in the final stages of this cold dreadfulness. I have to admit seeing the changing covers and the general relief of yes, it’s almost over! among us Northern-Hemisphere dwellers was catching. That was my mistake. I really should have known better.

When I have no plans to go for the weekend, I pay no heed to the weather forecast from Friday night until Monday morning. Thus it took me by surprise to look out of my window and see snow falling. Not just falling, but falling heavily – there was no question this stuff was sticking. Oddly enough instead of being upset, I was highly amused. After all, I have witnessed it snow in April several times through out my life and here it is only March 1st. As I said, I really should have known better. I know in the morning as I look at the forecast for the week, so I can plan my wardrobe, a part of me cannot help but imagine Jack Frost chuckling to himself about this.

NYC: It’s March 1st! It’s almost spring, *breaks out pastels in hopes of sunshine* yay!

Jack Frost: “Almost spring” means it’s still winter, *dumps 5 inches of snow* put the parkas back on bitches!!

Yeah, Ol’ Jack is having a good giggle on this one – bastard!
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8th-annualc2a0slice-of-life-story-challenge-invite

Sweet Thing

In of one of my fave breakfast places near my job I am standing next to a woman giving her order to the new guy. The cashier starts to instruct the new guy on the particular way this customer likes her tea.

Woman: Make sure it’s the sweet, now. If it’s not you know what you have to do right?

New Guy: No, what?

The woman pantomimes licking her index finger and then sticking it in a cup of coffee and stirring. The guy blushes and starts laughing explaining how he’s not allowed to do that. The cashier who is definitely quite familiar with the woman, just shakes her head and starts laughing.

Cashier: Stop torturing him.

In the interim one of grill guys, and another guy walk up with trays laden with goodies to be placed in the display. The cookie tray stops in front of the woman, pastries stop in front of me as they wait for the new guy and cashier to move.

Woman and I (in unison): Oh! For me? Why thank you!

She is definitely a kindred spirit as we all laugh.

Grill guy (not missing a beat): You are already sweet enough, adding this much sugar to you is overkill!

Me: Flatterer!

Woman: But I have to taste one! You know, to make sure they’re good enough to serve to people.

Grill guy laughs rolling his eyes in amusement and hands her a chocolate chip cookie. She takes the cookie and has a bite.

Me: Hey, you know you always need a second opinion on these things.

Clearly knowing some comment from me was forthcoming, a chocolate chip cookie is in my hand before I can finish the sentence. I thank him in English, Spanish and German.

New Guy (handing the woman her tea): There you go just the way you like it.

Woman: Did you use you finger?

Cashier (still laughing): Will you stop! Aren’t you married?

Woman (points at Grill Guy): He’s my husband as long as he is feeding me cookies.

Me (pointing at New Guy): And he’s her boyfriend as long as he gets the tea sweet.

Cashier (faux groans): The two of you are bad on your own, I can’t take on both of you together.

Woman and I (not missing a beat): That’s not what you said last night!

Like I said, kindred spirits.

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Let’s see how others are slicing things up this Tuesday!

Slice of Life - Two Writing Teachers

Slice of Life Weekly Challenge | Two Writing Teachers

To Hug Or Not

kitten-no-hug

Usually proficient to a fault, an administrator at one of the venues where I teach was really having what Mama would have called a day a few weeks back.  We had never had a non work-related conversation before that day, but clearly something was troubling her and she was about to break down. When the session was over, I invited her into the room, locked the doors, sat in one chair and literally ordered her to sit in another and spill it right then and there before she totally lost it. Long story-short, she got it out of her system, and I offered advice, opinion and platitudes along the way. While the problem itself wasn’t solved that day, the pent of frustration affecting her performance at work and her over all mood was released and she was much better. I packed up and went on my way, thinking nothing of it. Anyone trying to suppress emotions to that degree will swear on bibles they were getting away with the subterfuge. Almost always the distress is transparent, it just needs an outlet. Surprisingly, it took me, a near stranger, to get it out of her. Then again, maybe not all that surprisingly. After all, we’ve all heard of how many will confess deep sorrows to a random bartender that wouldn’t or couldn’t be told to friends.

Returning to the venue again last week for another class she and I were exchanging our usual pleasantries when she suddenly reached out and bear hugged me. I understood she was grateful and was thanking me for showing care that day when even her co-workers could not have been so bothered, but having just shy of totally forgotten our last encounter I was not mentally prepared for it. In total opposition of my behavior the last time we saw each other, I was not gentle at all when I pushed away, just short of snarling for her to let go of me. She was understandably befuddled so I had to explain.

Now this is likely going to surprise some people, but here goes. I really do not like to hug or be hugged by every body. The expression of the black kitten from the above picture is me on the inside 90% of the time when being hugged.

Obviously, there are those with whom I give and receive hugs freely and willingly. With some other people, it could go either way as to who’s the top or bottom (< see what I did there?).  Nor is it a religious, germ-a-phobe, or I hate people kind of thing because none of that applies here. I do not get the urge to run off and wash head-to-toe when I hug, I just don’t like the contact. I do not like being mauled, you may call it being hugged, by just any and every body.  I am not even going into the whole cheek-to-cheek whether to kiss, to air-kiss or not to kiss  at all aspect. And yes, while I fully concede that for a self-proclaimed Social Mothra who is constantly milling around people, this is a baffling complex to have.

When I do the hugging thing, it is with people who I see on a regular enough basis to have become accustomed enough to let them within my personal space without cringing. I can, and often do, the one arm around the shoulder thing socially without a problem. It is, the full wrap both arms around the body and squeeze thing that is the problem for me. I feel that much physical contact should be reserved for close family, good friends and other loved ones.

As with most things there are exceptions. Though certain friends and I had known each other for years it was only online. As the opportunities arose for us to finally meet face-to-face individually and collectively the giving and receiving of hugs was never in question. I hugged, happily and joyfully.

This becomes a problem when in a heavy social setting where I am standing in a mixed crowd where some people I really know, those I somewhat know, but am not close to and the ones I barely or do not know at all. Those I barely or do not know are easy. They are not expecting to receive a hug from a relative stranger, and there is no reason to give one. For everyone else, rather than explain, one more time, yet again, that it is nothing personal, but I really do not like hugging. It really is just easier to grit my teeth, suffer through a series of quick hugs and just be done with it. For some reason it is okay for a seated person not to stand and hug.  And it is equally okay, if the one standing does not desire to lean down and give a hug, unless it is for close family, friends, loved ones. For that reason, I try to be seated, if I can.

Luckily, the venue administrator understood. Apparently she has a family member with similar view and thus took it in stride.  But for many it then becomes this but why? situation as though not wanting to be hugged by every one on the blessed earth must have been caused by some traumatic experience.  And even if it were the case, if they are someone I don’t want to hug, what are the odds they are someone I would share a traumatic experience with? Because, let’s be honest, not everyone who holds the title of a friend is also a loved one. There is no way to be honest and be kind in that situation.

Everybody has his or her thing/s. Hugging is one of mine. So depending on the person, the situation and especially my mood please don’t take personally if I don’t elect to throw my arms around you. In this case, really, it’s me not you, I promise.

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That’s my two cents, let’s see how others are slicing it up for the week:

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Slice of Life Writing Challenge | Two Writing Teachers

Or Does It Explode?

I can see my personal quest for inner calm is in direct defiance of my continual reading of news regarding the lack of a grand jury indictment in Ferguson, MO.

When I first read about the verdict I literally threw up my hands in frustration. That action immediately put to mind the classic Marvin Gaye song “Inner City Blues” which I posted to my Facebook.

ferguson

I wake up this morning to the snippets of the evidence presented at trial all over the news and social media. If what has thus far ben released to the public as a way to substantiate the grand jury’s correctness in their decision, it has backfired greatly my eyes.

I’ve seen some of the photo evidence of Office Wilson’s “injuries”. They range from what looks like razor burn or heat rash to a simple scratch. I’ve marred myself more popping a pimple.

And as I angrily posted this morning upon seeing the above picture:

ferguson2

That was his personal evidence? THAT was worth someone’s life? NO!

I know. I KNOW, I was not at the trial. I have not perused all the evidence that was presented to the grand jury – now released to the public. I have seen several snippets that have thus far been posted to news and social media. Those alone, at least to me, make it worthy of a trial.

All I can think right now is: Has the value of black lives, which were always of questionable value in this country historically once we stopped being chattel in the country anyway, lowered so far down the scale that the death of one in such fashion is not even worth a damn trial?

Last night’s outbreaks of violence in the aftermath of the verdict, reminds me very much of what happened after Rodney King. And to be honest, while I understood the anger that drove it, I did not understand the point of the LA riots in 1992 any more than I understand these outbreaks in Ferguson now. Being afraid to step foot in or out of the door of your local business because your own neighbor may have a Molotov at the ready, does nothing to help the situation. I’ve lived just long enough to see that while the details change, it still all feels a harsh ring of deja vu with history repeating itself.

Here we Americans stand some two hundred and thirty plus years of freedom from England. We blacks stand some one hundred and fifty years free from slavery, but sometimes I feel like we’re still bound. The Civil Rights Movement has done much for the outer trappings, yet we are still such a long way from the inner heart of the dream of Rev. Dr. King. And it seems every generation or so, a match gets lit to a powder keg to remind of us of just how far we have left to go before that dream comes true. In the interim, it still remains a dream deferred and Langston Hughes best explained the possible ramifications of such…

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

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It’s a pretty pissed off Raivenne slicing here – come see how others are slicing it up today:

Slice of Life - Two Writing Teachers

Slice of Life Weekly Writing Challenge | Two Writing Teachers

Weekly Prompt – Share Your World – Week 45

Over at Cee’s Photography I’ve discovered a weekly challenge to “Share Your World” via random questions. While photos are not required, I agree they do enhance things. Here are my responses:

What is your favorite color? 

shades-of-black

Black. I know part of my love for the color is because of my aversion to all things pastel as a child. As a teen and adult, the appeal for me is the mystery attached to it. The color of darkness; the touch of badness; the hint of the illicit and the simple perversion of liking something girls are not supposed to like. I was Goth and Metal and Leather, a good decade before those terms existed in my lexicon. Back when it meant something rebel, mysterious, dark not to be the near casually tossed out adjectives as used today.

In what do you find the simplest of joys?

 

Bacon Mac and Cheese

Macaroni and cheese – with bacon!

 music-is-what-feelings-sound-likeMusic! Music! Music!

Food and music. A bowl of mac & cheese in general, but especially with bacon can bring out of just about any foul mood and put a smile on my face. It makes a good mood feel even better. In either case at least until the bowl is finished. * Big Grin *  Such simple ingredients at its base – yet so complex in how it just works. There is a reason it is high up in the list of Comfort Food for so many.

And as much as I am a logophile and bibliophile and appreciate the ability of words to reach and touch me to the core, music gets me there deeper and infinitely faster. I can hear the opening of certain songs and/or music pieces and feel my mood shifts on the first note of recognition. At least in my head I have to do the call backs of Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” (bom-bom-bom <– see?! I just had to, had to include it!), and unless I am carrying a very heavy load, I still cannot resist the urge to drop everything in order to “air drum”, the drum solo in Phil Collins “In The Air Tonight”. I have clutched my heart and been brought to tears over a piece of music as book has ever done so – yet. I am not always eating, but there is always music -or easy access to it- around me.

Would you prefer a reading nook or an art, craft, photography studio?

studio_1

Oh, the art studio hands down.  I can make a reading nook out of just about any where I choose to sit and read. I do not work on a lot of the art things I would like to simply because I do not have the space to pursue such within the limited confines off my apartment. I am pretty sure my landlord would very much object to a kiln for glass blowing or a pottery wheel in my living room, not to mention the mess acrylic and oil paints can make. I already know should I hit the big lottery; whatever home I build will have a studio nearby where I can work on any of my various artistic pursuits at will as well as a library.

What is at least one of your favorite quotes?

 orig-copy

Everyone is born an original; sadly most die as copies.

freedom-happiness

Doing what you like is freedom; liking what you do is happiness.”


Bonus question:
What are you grateful for from last week, and what are you looking forward to in the week coming up?

grateful
Last week was seeing the first New York Festival of Light and getting to spend some time with my eldest son in the process. The Festival was in its inaugural run and it was sweet being at the very first of something new. Years down the road from now, there’s going to be a certain cachet in being able to brag, I was at the first one. I took pictures, unfortunately not a single one with me and my son in them as proof we were there – d’oh! I am already looking forward to next year’s Festival – I know it will be even bigger and better! As for this week that is already more than halfway over, I am looking forward to the “Color Play” opening reception at La Maison d’Art in Harlem. Like the Festival I rarely get to many such events on their opening day, not to mention hardly attend any events in Harlem any more – to which hang my head in shame. That is a slight I plan to rectify starting with this exhibit.

Come Share Your World at Cee’s Photography.

 

The Teeth The Whole Teeth And I Got Nothing…

Because I had a yen for mediocre barbecue, a friend and I were dining at the epitome of NYC eatery, Dallas BBQ (metro NYC dwellers familiar with the chain are giggling at that statement right now, if that’s any hint). A woman, who looked to be my physical age, but may have been older given allowance for the “crack factor” was sitting at nearby table with her dining companion. As he went to go feed the meter, she had a sudden outburst of several panicked “Oh no!”s, while frantically searching her purse, her coat pockets and the table for something clearly important. After a few moments she points at a busboy with an accusatory “He took it! I know he took it!”.

Was it a ring, her wallet, credit/debit cards or even cash? No, it was her teeth.

Yes, you read that correctly. Her teeth.

As her decibel and tear levels increase, it is learned that it was her birthday and she had removed her teeth while she dined, placing them on the table beside her plate, wrapped up in paper napkins. Personally, I never quite understood the point of removing one’s dentures, bridgework et cetera in order to eat. I mean, isn’t the point of most dentistry is to provide the wearer the ability to masticate one’s food, but I digress. According to her, while waiting for “doggie bags” (and as my dinner companion asked “Who says that anymore?”), the busboy cleared the remaining refuse on the table, thereby trashing the at first valued at $500, but by event’s end increased to $700 in orthodontics.

Clearly when being taught Table Clean-Up 101, the busboys missed the section that states they must carefully inspect every single piece of balled-up tissue or napkin discarded at a dinner table for possible teeth, because the owners of said teeth are not responsible for their belongings. Essentially, she accused the man of doing his job – that bastard! She was in turns having a pouting, table pounding, smack condiments to the floor in frustration, foot stomping, with intermittent outcries of “My teeth!” hissy fit.

Her dinner companion addressed her as “Ma”, as in a poignant, earnest, but definitely loud request to “Chill the fuck out Ma!” as her wailing increased. Attempting to gauge his age in comparison to hers, in order to determine whether “Ma” was a title or a term of endearment was never established. The woman was just short of keening for her lost teeth, much to the amusement of a table of four twenty-mid-twenty-somethings, all of whom pulled out their respective cell phones to record the proceedings as managers and other wait staff were pulled into the melodrama.

All this time I was facing the events, doing my best to not start outright laughing in the woman’s presence, even if I could barely keep a straight face of my own. Some forty-five minutes later, the birthday girl and her dinner companion leave the restaurant, still distraught over the loss, but with their meal comped for their troubles. It was the general consensus of my dining companion that the point of the entire production was getting the meal comped. While I not necessarily agree to that in regard to the lost teeth, it was clearly the intent of a woman who sat a table over from the going-ons, claiming the event upset her so, she suffered loss of appetite and she and her dinner companion should be compensated for such. The beleaguered manager, understandably flustered from the craziness, was not hearing it.

My friend looked me dead in the eye and proclaimed she did not care how desperate I wanted ribs, we were never stepping foot in that place again. Can’t say that I blamed her. After all, if hjbvl c this was a simple rainy Wednesday evening, early dinner crowd can you imagine the shenanigans on a Friday? During Happy Hour?

On the second thought, don’t.

Wash. Sip. Repeat.

Enter Subway Pet Peeve Number One: Eating or drinking on the subway when you are standing above someone.

I am seated reading a book on my Tab when I smell coffee. A woman is standing in front of me sipping from a paper cup. Not a thermos, a paper cup; a large paper cup. I can clearly see the torn tab opening when moves the cup from her lips. I can tell by the angle in which she holds it while sipping, it is still a relatively full cup.

“Good Morning.” I smile, garnering her attention and she returns my greeting.

“I’m asking, could you not do that please?” I ask pointing to the cup.

“Not do what? Drink my coffee?”

“Yes. Could you not do that please?”

“Why?”

“This is a crowded train during rush hour. You could be jostled at any moment that results in spillage and I do not want me or my electronics to get wet.”

“There’s no law that says I can’t drink coffee on the train.”

“You are correct, there is no explicit law denying anyone the right to eat and drink on the subway. However, it is considered common courtesy to refrain from doing so when seated, it is especially so if you are standing above someone.”

“I’m not going to spill anything.”

“Not intentionally, I hope, but the word accident exists for a reason. However profusely stated and honestly felt, “I’m sorry” does not negate any potential damage done. It especially does negate the callousness of your actions when I am asking you nicely, not to. If you don’t want to stop, can I then ask you to stand elsewhere? Maybe other passengers are not as bothered by it as I.”

From the looks of my fellow passengers seated on either side of me, it was clear they would not be indifferent to her rudeness either and she knew it.

“Oh please. Fuck you.”

I look up to the through the subway car roof to the heavens above and mentally ask the Powers-that-Be why they chose a day when I am in a dress and heels, in other words in no way dressed for a potential fight, to test me so.

“Not a problem.”

I do not say anything else to her knowing she will be off the train before I will. I simply hoped she does not spill anything on me in the interim. The best I can do is put my Tab and cellphone out of harm’s way. Seeing my house keys in a side pocket, I take them out and hold them in my fist. I think better of it and put them away, carefully placing my bag on the floor between my feet. I know she saw what I did and moved the cup from her face. There is slight mumbling around us by those witnessing the exchange, none of it in her favor, but nothing else. All the while she is standing there holding the coffee in her hand, not sipping it, but with the open notch it’s still a potential for spillage.

The train reaches her stop and she turns to leave, giving me the side eye over her shoulder as she does. Bitch is stated in her eyes, if not spoken with her mouth. A guy seated across, but closer to the door, from me wakes up with a start. He looks around dazed for a split second and must have realized he either missed his stop or was about to when he stood up quickly. He stood right into the hand holding the coffee that was on its way to her lips again for a defiant sip as she glared at me.

Want to guess what happened next?

Yup, the guy accidentally knocks the coffee into her, causing it to spill on her blouse and his elbow that made contact before she can right it. The man apologizes profusely, but he is also intent on getting off the train. She has moved enough away that none of it drips on me. A woman sitting to my left, who witnessed the exchange between the woman and I snorts a heartfelt “Good for her!”. Because this is morning rush hour there is confusion at the door as people are rushing to get in and out while avoiding the coffee spill on the floor. Another woman somehow stepped right in it and nearly slipped, grabbing the handhold just in time. Ms. Coffee immediately turns around, clearly about to apologize, when the woman, cuts her off.

“”The word accident exists for a reason.” Next time, don’t drink the damn coffee. Now get out of the way!” The woman who nearly fell snarls at Ms. Coffee, pushing past her evidently pissed.

I know it is coming, so I wait for it. Sure enough Ms. Coffee shoots me one last look. I salute her with the bird as she hustles to get off the train before the door closes. Two men in suits who entered from a different door and witnessed only  the last minute or so of the events, look around as they make their way in.

I am reaching for my bag to get my iPod when the woman next to me bursts out laughing, making me look up.

“What was that all commotion at the other door about?” One suit asks his friend while sipping a cup of coffee. In a paper cup.

I groan as the woman laughs harder and the two suits look on confused.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

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Update: Guess who I saw on the train this morning? Yup, Ms. Coffee herself, sans coffee this time. She was not standing near me, but we saw each other.

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Come see how others are slicing up their days…

Slice of Life Writing Challenge | Two Writing Teachers

Slice of Life - Two Writing Teachers

Black Label Autumn Memories

As I am  walking to the train station this morning a tiny flash of something bright falls just outside of my vision. It is a small golden leaf that lands on my shoulder. Being in my favorite season, I smile at the thought of autumn in New York City coming to its glory. I start to simply flick it off and go on about my day, but it somehow lands in my palm instead.

Then the heart does the one thing nothing else can do – make time stop for a moment as I am transported back some twenty years into the past.

It is a Sunday evening, the last night of an impromptu weekend trip with my late-husband to the Poconos. He is inside refreshing a drink. I am outside in my underwear leaning on the porch rail enjoying the view of the mountains that are basked in the warm bright colors of early sunset that washed the autumn foliage before me in rich shades before the sun reaches the ochre and indigo phases of its descent. With the annoying ability to walk on cat feet when he chooses to I do not hear him approach, but the heat from the eternal furnace that is his body reaches me just before he does and I turn to face him. He has on even less than I, and by the easy smile playing along his lips I am well aware of how much he likes what he sees before him. Wordlessly, he takes a slow sip of his drink as he reaches up to pull something from my hair and let it go. I extend my hand and a small golden leaf falls onto my open palm. It rests only for a moment before he gently blows it away and steps into my arms to kiss me. I remember wishing that we had more time there to enjoy ourselves before heading back to reality.

And reality reasserts itself back into my current life as a warm gust of air gently blows the fallen leaf from my palm.

It felt so eerily like his breath on my palm from that long ago evening; I shivered in remembrance. I have been trying to shake it off all morning, but here I am decades after the fact, hours after the memory, wishing I could once again enjoy the taste of Black Label on his lips.

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Slice of Life - Two Writing Teachers

Slice of Life Weekly Challenge | Two Writing Teachers

That’s A Dress?

A new plus-size clothing store opened in my area. I came to check it out, visually peruse the wares. With most of the clothing brightly colored, patterned and blingy, the store clearly catered to a customer base much younger than myself.  While the styles were cute, most of their skirts and dresses were much too short for my tastes, even if worn with leggings as is the current trend. It’s just not my style, but I keep looking because you never know, every now and then you strike gold and I did. I spot a semi-muted leopard print skirt with a pleated sheer black overlay hanging high on a wall. I am actually surprised by this skirt for a couple of reasons. The muted tones of the print together with the overlay was a considerable level up in comparison to most of what I had seen so far. Above all it was the only skirt in the entire shop that reached my knees. Bonus – it was on sale, so I had to have it. I catch the eye of a sales girl, point to the skirt on the wall and ask if it is in my size. She looks befuddled not seeing the skirt I’m speaking of until I point it out by describing the shorter skirt next to it.

“Oh, you mean the leopard mini dress!” She smiles finally understanding to which item I refer; only now I am the one who is confused.

“That’s a dress?” I look at it again, not seeing it all at.

“Yeah, let me take it down for you, you’ll see.” She finds an extender hanging hook and brings it to me. “See? It’s a dress.”

I dubiously took it and held it against my body.  To be fair the tube dress likely would be cute hitting mid-thigh or lower on someone who is 5’3″ or shorter. However, at my 5’8″ frame, worn as designed, it barely reached past my hips to my upper thighs and that is just holding it against me. With my body shape it would be even shorter when put on.

“Please tell me, where on earth would I be going at my age in something like this? Me?” I shake my head. It honestly was a sarcastic, rhetorical question, but the sales girl didn’t know that.
“Yes, you! It’s a club dress. You could easy rock that!” She nods as she visually appraised the dress against me.

“I’m fifty years old and there’s no way in hell…” I begin and then stop, seeing that she is about to cut me off with the standard tripe. “I swear if you’re about to say “age is just a number” close your mouth now before you lose a sale.” She closed her mouth so hard and fast I think I heard her teeth grind. “You’re new at being a sales girl in a clothing store aren’t you?”

She nods self-consciously in response. “That obvious?”

I take a mental breath and smile at the girl, hopefully taking some of the sting out of my words.  She is just trying to do her job, I reminded myself. “Just a little. It takes time to learn to read customers. Someone younger, you might be able to get them to buy it as a dress anyway. But I’m not that young. You saw that face I gave you a moment ago? That was the face of a woman who knows what she is about.  What her style is and what works for her. You can’t sway her. You don’t want to push too hard on a customer who’s set like that. She can have five items in her arms that she loves, but may walk away purchasing nothing because of that. In your case you’re lucky I have imagination and am buying this to wear as a skirt. So what do you think you should do next?”

“Ask you to show me how you’re wearing it as a skirt so I can show someone else how if they don’t like it as a dress neither.”

I mentally cringed at the double negative, but nodded approvingly, “Very good. And…?”

“Now that you have this skirt, we have a belt I think would go great with it. Let me show you, it’s this way.” She turned barely waiting for my response, knowing I would follow.

“Perfect.” I laughed.  “Show me.”

I’ve worn that skirt twice now with different tops and both times I received compliments on my dress.  Especially when seen  in pictures. The irony of it makes me giggle.

dress - skirt

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That’s a dress?

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Slice of Life – Two Writing Teachers