4 February 1999: Slave to the Rhythm

So I went a little nuts at the warehouse store. Before I left for step class, I told RDC I was going to go because I was out of saline.

"Band-Aids, rubbing alcohol," he asked.

"Saline, orange juice," I agreed.

Another new instructor today, allegedly to be the regular Thursday person. She led well, with audible, consistent instructions, good music, and a routine that everyone could follow but that advanced people could modify. I had a super workout and told her so. She was pleased to have the feedback and said she liked to have enthusiastic people in the front row. I'm a cheerleader! I also told the front desk how much I approved of her, since I hadn't hesitated to speak up about the Martha Stewart of Step Aerobics, who had pranced with attitude over the past three Thursdays over our increasing protests and disgust.

And off I went to the warehouse with four items on my mental list. I knew I was in trouble when my hands were full before I got anywhere near the refrigerated or health supplies aisles. Instead of putting everything down, however, I went back and got a cart.

They very carefully don't offer handbaskets. You get to go to the hell of irresistible bargains with a regular grocery cart.

The first thing I got I knew I was going to get. Last year for Christmas we gave the littler RDC a computer game called "Pajama Sam: No Need to Hide When It's Dark Outside" and of course we both had to test-play it before we could give it to him, he being on the lower end of the suggested age range. I didn't finish it then but we both enjoyed it enough that it entered my idiolect at least a little. I spoke of capturing Darkness in my lunchbox (conveniently, CLH gave me a Curious George lunchbox last Christmas, not knowing it might be a Portable Bad-Guy Containment Unit) and whenever a particularly challenging or annoying household task presented itself, I would say that this was a job for Pajama Sam! Anyway RDC recently saw it there for a fifth what we paid for it last year, and I've seen more expensive movies, so I plucked it up. The rest of the stuff flew into my hands.

In honor of the move, I bought the beginning of a shelving system, justifying getting it now rather than later because you never know what the warehouse will have. I explained this to RDC when I got home. "They had refrigerators, and I was going to buy one of those too." He reminded me that we live in an apartment. "But they were so cheap!" was my only repartee.

And another quarter wagon wheel of Romano, since somehow it's been disappearing faster than we've been eating pasta. A mystery. When RDC discovered this, he remonstrated me that it's not a snack food. I pointed out his wheel of Gouda. Chacun à son gout, je dit. And a large bunch of bañanas.

Then I violated my principles. I say no one should buy ideas from chains and so books and music should come from independent stores or used. But I saw a volume comprising three Maeve Binchy novels and I plucked that up for DEW. I've never read her but my sense is she's an Irish Rosamund Pilcher, and DEW is grateful for any reading matter, so I'm sure it'll be fine. And the greatest hits of Patsy Cline. I'm so ashamed.

When I got home, toting a large box full of stuff, RDC was on the phone, so I couldn't deliver the line I'd planned about this being the heaviest box of band-aids ever. When he got off the phone, though, I did point out that the deviant bottle of rubbing alcohol. I expected the warehouse to sell it in 3-liter bottles, but no, it was a regular size. Shocking.

I unpacked here and there and showered and sat down with Addie Pray and my supper (pasta, and a big chunk of cheese in the grater) when the phone rang. I could tell by RDC's tone it was my mother. When he brought the phone to me he said, "There's something wrong," but he didn't mean tragic.

First she buttered me up with something about RDC's job. She must have asked him what he was doing because he had said, "I'm working" during their half-minute exchange. She forgets that in addition to his job he is writing his dissertation, but then she's never considered his being in grad school actual work.

Then she asked about an idea I'd had for CLH's birthday, which I told her she could use too because two were better than one. I told her I'd been unable to get in touch with CLH's friend who would have the information the idea needed, information I could get from CLH herself but which would then ruin the surprise. "Oh, because you said you had this idea but you haven't told me what I need to know to do it." I reminded her that I had just seconds before said I had been unable to get hold of the friend and thus the information. "Oh, but you didn't say that before." Does she listen to me? I think not.

Once she considered the pleasantries out of the way, she asked if we use the dropleaf table. "Yes, of course we do. It's our dining table." Oh, she was just wondering, because she wanted to know its dimensions. Just wondering, my ass. Where was this going? I got up, fetched the tape, and measured the thing. I told her each leaf is 18 inches long and the middle top part is 12 wide, so it's 48 inches long set up.

"Oh, it's 56 inches long?" Does she listen to me? I think not. I reminded her that I had just seconds before said 18, and 18 + 18 + 12 = 48. "Oh, I thought you said each leaf was 24." Does she listen to me? I think not.

"So anyway, why do you want to know the dimensions?"
She tried to worm out of this one but eventually she spoke of a "half-formed" idea of using the table annually to display her Dickens Christmas Village. She wouldn't have called at 10 at night unless the matter were preventing her from sleeping.
"So you want the table back," I stated.
"Well no, not yet, dear…"

She wants the table back.

That was a short call, since she had placed it and had had only specific fill-in-the-blank questions for me.

In the hour between the call and ER, which praise be to sweeps week was not a rerun, I wrote her a tiny little epistle to remind her of the salient fact here, which is that the table is mine, given to me by her before we left Connecticut and not lent to me because I wouldn't have hauled a loan across country. Let's see if she reads me.

Yes, I do know better than to think so.