Wool-Gathering

Today would have been Daisy’s 18th birthday. I had a nice sniffle this morning because I miss that little cranky-pants.

I’m sitting in the little Starbucks cafe at my nemesis – the Kroger – down the street from where I live. Those who have read my rants before will recognize this store as the one where no personnel on their staff says “thank you” when I grace them with my business. To be fair, they’ve gotten better at this over the last few months, but I’m considering a new beef with their cart retrievers, who never respond “hello” when I greet them. It’s always something with me. I work from home; I’ve got to entertain myself somehow.

I was talking with my therapist the other day about leaving the house during the day and getting some human interaction, because I’m becoming a little weird.

I went to a regular Starbucks to pretend to work while mysteriously sipping my latte, but the only available seat in the packed café was next to a guy who had shucked off his loafers and was airing his bare feet.

So I find myself in the grocery store Starbucks where the ambiance is less jazz and relaxation and more twang and bustle. I’ve just purchased a $5 latte and have settled myself and my laptop at a grimy counter overlooking the parking lot.

It’s a cloudy, windy, dreary day. The leafless trees are black claws against the sky. Two parking lot birds are fighting over a cigarette butt. I wonder for a few minutes if they are grackles or crows, and what’s the difference between the two, anyway. Somebody should Google that, so I do. I ponder for a minute or two: is my cart retriever beef anything like those two birds, battling over something nobody cares about?

Every now and then a cashier will call for a price check over the loudspeaker, interrupting my reverie and the sassy, girl-power Shania Twain song blaring through the store.

There’s a man to my right who brought his lunch in one of those old-fashioned, heavy black lunchboxes like I imagine construction workers use. He sets out his different items – fork, Tupperware, napkin, coffee – with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker setting gears. He sneezes and proceeds to eat. I guess since it’s his boogers, no harm done.

I swear if this damn song doesn’t end soon, I’ll leave, but I’ve promised myself to stick it out for at least an hour.

A college-age girl sits down with her Microsoft Surface. She has pretty hair. I compare my HP laptop to hers and decide I like her machine better. I like her hair better than my own, too. I don’t think this is what my therapist had in mind as a healthy outing.

I stare wistfully out the window at the parking lot, ennui oozing from every pore. So I start to write.