Wisdom of MY Words

Random Musings & Book Reviews

18 December
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Loft Antiques

Yesterday was a rough day. After an older woman, easily 60s with angry grey hair and a permanent scowl embedded in her pasty flesh, told me “Sure hope you don’t have a horrible accident outside.” As anyone that knows me knows I am the least passive aggressive person in Minneapolis. I am also a nice person. Now, I was always nice, but I became much nicer after that whole terminal cancer diagnosis. As I’ve written on Facebook, most of the time I’m shocked to wake up next to Jon every morning. I’m shocked to smell things. To feel my knees. To cream my face. And to run my hands over my absolutely ADORABLE Barbie body! Cute boobs and a thin waist. I’m hot. I mean, I don’t even know who I am when I look in the mirror because I am stunning. I don’t look like the Prussian by way of Stonehenge beet that I am.

At the corner of 50th and Xerxes, where you’d turn to head to Southwest, is an antique store that’s been there forever. I shopped there when Geoff and I first moved to the #southside which was actually Franklin and Lyndale. Some Googling produced this nice article, which seems accurate, except that the owners have never been nice. Loft Antiques SWJournal Article So, our brutal blonde that wished a stranger ill-will must have a story behind it.

Ahem. Here is the series of events…

I’ve a bag with me that has my wallet and car keys in it. I have my left arm snaked around my new thin chest and it’s holding the bag tight against my body, just as I’d hold it on the El, or as I check out the people on the train out of the Gare du Nord, or Euston Station. However, I am wearing a two thousand dollar German boiled wool coat with a foxy fur collar. This coat is well made, and makes me look like a member of the Russian Army. I’m wearing custom ordered fur lined Sorel’s, and a grey cashmere hat. Whatever the cost of this dish, if you look at me through my $400 purple glasses along with my white girl weave you’d have to be a moron to not know I’m good for it.

My bulbous iPhone in it’s case, along with leather lined gloves are in my coat pocket. My damn phone hits a white glass dish that was on the edge of a table. I was in a bit of a fugue state when it fell as I was looking at something and deep in thought. I’m looking for gorgeous one-of-a-kind containers of at least one gallon to make pea and I a batch of homemade laundry detergent. Prodigal Son used to call us both “tree huggers,” as if we were offended by that pejorative.

The other reason I go to antique stores is to remember. I smell Nana Wolski, and Aunt Hattie, Nana Davis, Aunt Marg, Aunt Dorothy, and more. I go to these stores to remember and to mourn. A cursory walk through an antique store usually generates income for them, and a profitable writing session for me. I never saw the dish, but I heard it break. I was mid-realizing that it was my phone and not my bag that created the mess when I felt an angry uncomfortable shift in the air. I turned around because I could feel it, like heat felt from a great distance.

Behind me 15 paces was a short angry-looking woman. Her mouth curled in disgust and the vibe in the room goes from, “Oh man, that’s broken, now we have to pay for it, geez I hope it wasn’t part of a set.” to an angry Stalin “Don’t even think about moving out of this space until I have castigated you.” vibe. Jon felt it too. I turn and say, “I broke this dish. I’m sorry. I will pay for it.”

I am waiting for acknowledgement and in the silence I count. Jon and I fight about my counting. I do it to him. After chemo I can’t distinguish time. I don’t know what is a long time or a short time any more. Although I realized yesterday that it’s also some residual trauma stuff, but regardless, I counted as my judge stood blocking the door for 32 seconds. She said, “It was your bag. Those bags cause all sorts of problems,” laconically. I said nothing, she said nothing, staunchly blocking the exit. The silence shamed me. My apology wasn’t accepted. My money wasn’t good enough for her. I was hurt. Stunned. Pained. I felt trapped. I grew overly paranoid that maybe this dish was actually some $2000 heirloom that I broke with my coat. As I said thirty two thousand in my head she spoke again in a measured tone, not angry, but cold, my nose was starting to freeze from the shade she was throwing. “It’s your bag.” No acknowledgement of the apology or the offer of payment.

Silence.

It was a two-second stand-off before I bent down and looked at the price tag, scoffing, saying, “Honestly, Jon, it’s eight bucks,” and I chortle because I’ve realized that it wasn’t a bazillion dollars. I’m in an antique store because I have money issues. Hello.

I’m no longer feeling contrite or generous. I’m no longer feeling Nana Wolski and her love, and I lash out, because this is the millionth person in two weeks to treat me like absolute shite, starting with the fucking bitch of a server at Tullibee last week-end. I wave my arm at the woman, looking at Jon, “This is exactly why I can hardly wait to move to Denver. She’s the typical Minnesotan, she can’t accept an apology because she wants my pound of flesh,” as I walked towards her, my 5’9″ 150# frame, I’m sure, seemingly threatening, coming towards her blocking the door and she moved out of the way. I started up the steps grasping the railing because my Knee Replacement is giving some problems with pain.

She says, “I sure hope you don’t have a horrible accident outside.”

Jon, jonny jon jon, who never ever ever says anything rude to people said, “Hey, fuck you.”

When I asked him about it this morning, he said “Nobody is going to talk to my wife like that. Who does she think she is, after the fracture and you immobile in a wheelchair with that brace on for three months, and all that after cancer,” he wailed. And that’s the whole problem.

I may look like this healthy, certainly not 52 year old, woman who is gorgeous, and thin, with a cute bod and expensive outer wear; but really I am one step away from metastasized cancer. I’m mere stress and ill thoughts away from death. Now I just feel sad. We left the store after she said that, and I now I have to go back and drop off the $8 for the bowl/plate, whatever, because it’s the right thing to do. But like hell I’m going back without putting this out on the web. So, in the event this woman’s sentiment that she wishes me more horrors than I’ve already experienced happens and I end up in traction or worse, you’ll know why.

This song man, perfect for this blog post. Back Stabbers

I’m going to end this blog post on a positive note. Tonight we are having Kate and Zack eat with us and I’m making a Porketta from Duluth. First time for porketta, let alone a porketta from Duluth. It’s super liberating to not have many cans of anything, and can buy your meat drop shipped from a Smokehouse in Duluth, well, life is good, regardless of what happened yesterday. So, as we are off to The Galleria to get gifties for people, I leave you with a happy, optimistic song: Fleetwood Mac Makes You Smile

 
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