Made in China

A rap on the door startled me from the slumber which I did not realize had overcome me.  I darted a glance to the only timepiece in the room, my cell phone.  I had been asleep for nearly an hour.  What possessed me to host two functions in one weekend? I muttered, as I struggled to my feet from the low couch — the comfortable couch — and made my way to the door, shushing the dog in the process.

Brenda Dingley stood at the door bearing gifts.  A magneted notepad such as I had admired in her home; and magnets for securing business cards to the refrigerator.  I was out walking, she said.  I planned to leave them in your mailbox.

We sat talking — about my upcoming trip; about the next art show at Suite 100;  and about memories, some pleasant, some not.  I told her, Right before I fell asleep, I contemplated going out to get some food.  And quick as a wink, off we went, in Brenda’s little car, to Chai Shai for pakoras and other delectable fare.

Towards the end of dinner, Brenda mentioned that she had a shawl that she no longer wore, which she’d like to give me.  Oh good! I chortled.  “Shawl” is on my packing list!  I have shawls, but one can never have too many and a new shawl is like the first sip from a cold can of soda — delicious, perfect, satisfying.  We drove the extra block past my house to hers, and out from the house she came with this gorgeous, soft, rich shawl.  I bought it at the Great Wall of China, Brenda explained.

I held it up to my face and breathed.  But don’t you want it?  She shrugged, putting the car in reverse.   I don’t use it much anymore.  And it just looks like something you would wear.

Some people get me.

It’s 6:15 a.m. and I have a court appearance in two hours.  I have not finished laundry nor have I packed or cleaned out the refrigerator.  I still have to create and order the title sheets for the March 4th show, and client appointments fill the last sixteen work hours before my flight west. At 4:15 a.m. on Wednesday, I will board a Super Shuttle in front of Pat Reynold’s house, at which I am staying Tuesday night and where I will leave the Prius during my trip to California so the house-sitters can park in my space out back.  Between now and then, I will probably run myself to a frazzle.  I will sleep well on the plane.

It’s the twenty-second day of the twenty-sixth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.


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