Possibly the Worst Gift I Ever Gave My Grandmother

Yesterday my grandmother turned 102 years old. She’s in pretty good shape for 102. She lives in an efficiency apartment in an independent living facility. She doesn’t use a walker, although she has conceded to a cane to steady her. She’s not on oxygen, and she takes no medications whatsoever. She even still worries about getting fat. She says my husband makes the best Toll House cookies she’s ever had, so periodically I take her a box as a gift (because what else am I going to get someone who’s that old? It’s not like she needs anything) and she eats a couple, then freezes the rest to have when people come to visit her. My friends and I all agree that if we make it to 102, we are going to eat all the cookies.

As it happens, I have a friend with very outspoken opinions on grandparent names. She says (and I think she’s quoting some comedian) you hear perfectly rational adults say things like, “Well, I’m off to the airport to pick up MeeMaw and PeePaw,” and they just sound like idiots. We don’t call my grandmother MeeMaw (nor was her husband PeePaw), but we do have a sort of unfortunate nickname for her. And I gave it to her.

My grandmother has a cousin who has always been referred to in the family as Cousin Lucy. I don’t think I’ve ever met her—I’m not even sure she’s still alive. My grandmother always kept in pretty close touch with her. She lived with Cousin Lucy and Lucy’s husband, Cousin Clifton, at one point when she was young and right out of school. In any event, Cousin Lucy became a grandmother before my mother and her siblings started having children. Cousin Lucy’s grandchildren called her “Gumpy.” My grandmother always thought this was just the dumbest thing, and swore her grandchildren wouldn’t adopt anything so foolish for her.

I was the first grandchild, and when I learned to talk there was great concern as to what she and my grandfather would be called. I don’t mean to imply that she worried about it on a level with the Cold War or anything, but she was determined that her “grandmother name” would be something sensible. Why we didn’t just go with “Grandma” or “Granny” has never been explained, except maybe she didn’t like either of those options (I’ve never thought to ask her—I suppose I could; I did just say she’s still alive and pretty sharp mentally), possibly she didn't feel old enough to be a grandmother--she was only about 57 at the time, or maybe she was worried that a two year old would bastardize it and she’d end up as Gamgam or something equally abhorrent (since clearly that’s what happened in the case of Cousin Lucy).

My mother’s brother and sister were in college at this time, and still living at home. My grandmother’s real name is Eleanor, and my aunt and uncle used to call her Elsie as a joke, because of Elsie the Cow--my grandparents had a farm and raised beef cattle. My aunt suggested Elsie might be a good “grandmother name” because it was, after all, a real name 

“Oh, well, that’s all right with me. Tracy can call me Elsie,” she said.

Except, of course, I was unable to say Elsie, and what came out was “Ahtee.”  (Pronounced just like it’s spelled "ah" like you're having your throat checked + tee, and which spell check always wants me to change to “hate” which I think is pretty unkind of it, and a bit rude when it doesn’t even know my grandmother.) There’s a four year gap between me and my next youngest cousin, and by the time she came along, Ahtee was pretty well entrenched. My cousin’s brother is ten years younger than she is, so of course there was no turning back by then. Ahtee she is to this day, and with the exception of her actual children, everyone in our family calls her Ahtee.

At one point when I was a teenager, I got kind of embarrassed by the whole Ahtee thing (as teenagers do, convinced that everyone around me was judging me for this stupid nickname I was calling my grandmother in the grocery store, when in fact they probably called their own grandmother something equally as silly, or possibly even worse) and tried to call her Elsie, as had been intended all those years ago. It was, of course, a complete failure, and I was never able to retrain myself. Even if I had been, I’m not sure she would have been able to adjust to answering to it. And so Ahtee she is, and Ahtee she will be, forever and ever. I mentioned to her once that I wasn’t so sure she really came out that much better than Cousin Lucy, and she agreed, but I think after almost 50 years she’s made peace with it.

Do your grandparents have regrettable nicknames? Are you responsible for them?

3 Things to Consider Before Going with the Grilled Cheese

Like Lady Gaga, my coworker got engaged on Valentine’s Day. I am now forced by circumstances to listen to her plan her wedding. My coworker, I mean. Not Lady Gaga. While this has the potential to become very, very boring, right now it’s sort of interesting to listen to her debate the merits of this florist versus that caterer. 

She has a couple of sisters, and they’re dying to know what kind of bridesmaid dresses she’s going to pick. I’m sure Lady Gaga’s potential bridesmaids are also curious, and probably rightly so. Pretty sure they’re going to end up dressed like grilled cheese sandwiches, wearing traffic cones on their heads. All designed by McQueen. I guess that’s the chance you take when you sign up to be in Lady Gaga’s wedding.

I’ve been in a couple of weddings, and had my own, so when it comes to bridesmaid dresses, I have Thoughts. This is an area where you should tread carefully: you are picking out what someone else will wear, and unless your bridesmaids are Rockettes, it will be something that has to look good on a range of body shapes and sizes. 

This is notoriously hard to do, and you risk epically pissing off at least one person. There will always be someone who looks horrible in what you choose, and you have to decide if you can live with what they could to do you dress-wise if they ask you to be their bridesmaid one day. It isn't necessarily the worst idea to make sure anyone who looks awful in your dress is already married.

I have some friendly advice to share from my own experiences and conversations with friends through the years.

Don’t try to get something “everyone can wear again!”

This is easily the most persistent myth about bridesmaid dresses—that what your girls wear will be sufficiently un-bridesmaid-like that everyone will be able to wear it to a fancy party down the road. I’m pretty sure Eve said that about the fig leaves she picked out (she might also be the only woman who was ever right).

I promise, no matter what, there is no way anyone will ever think this dress is anything other than exactly what it was. I had a friend who even went to the department store and bought dresses off the rack from the fancy department for her attendants. It made no difference. Once a dress is worn in a wedding, it’s like it picks up an odor that emanates from it for the rest of time: anyone who gets near it immediately knows what it was originally. Don’t ask me why, but it’s true. The last thing anyone wants to hear at their company holiday party is, “Cute dress—did you wear it in a wedding?”

Skip the excessively twee accessories

I had a friend who got married on rainy day, and had to provide umbrellas for the wedding party. She found someplace that would rent umbrellas, and got cute ones that matched her flowers. This is fine. If you need to provide something functional, and you can do it in a fun way, great.

I’m talking about dressing everyone up like Little Bo Peep and giving them shepherd’s crooks, or worse, actual sheep to herd, with darling floral garlands around their fluffy necks—and in case you read this and thought, “Ooohhhh…heyyyy…” let me just say right now, NO. Your guests will not thank you if they step in sheep poop in their good shoes, and the sheep will eat the garlands off each other’s necks.

If a bridesmaid dress reminds anyone of anything worn at the Wilkes’ barbeque, the box social dance in Oklahoma!, or something from the Royal Ascot scene in My Fair Lady, skip it.

Filter based on price

Traditionally bridesmaids pay for their own attire. Try to remember this when you’re shopping. No one wants to pay $800 for something they’ll never wear again. If it were me, $200 is about as much as I’d be willing to pay. If you just cannot let go of the $500 dresses, it’s nice to offer to pay the difference. Yes, they get to keep the dresses, but really, they will never wear them again. Unless like one of my friends they’re invited to a, “Come in your old bridesmaid dress” party.

If you can relinquish control (not one of my strengths, but everyone is different) and give everyone a color or a pattern and tell them to find a dress, it can work. One friend told us to wear black dresses—she didn’t care what they looked like, or what style, as long as they were all black. The result was three women wearing dresses they already owned, that flattered them, but matched after a fashion.

It’s challenging to exert your will over others—in a situation in which you are completely within your rights to exert your will—without turning into Kim Jong-Il, demanding everyone have the same haircut or whatever. But remember that as much of an honor as you’re conveying on them, asking them to be in your wedding, they’re honoring you by agreeing to do so. And if I’ve managed to convince you of nothing else, remember: they will never wear it again. I swear.

I Probably Am Vicious and Cold Hearted

When I’m out walking around near my office, there’s something I see that always makes me think of my friend Cathy. Sorry, that kind of makes it sound like Cathy might be dead. She’s fine, in case you were worried. We live in the same city and like each other a lot, but I rarely see her. You know, sometimes you just have those friends. Anyway, there’s a sort of coffee shop thing that I pass every now and then, and I think of Cathy when I do. I almost always have to stifle my laughter so the people around me don’t think I’m a mental patient out on a day pass.

Cathy and I worked together a few years ago. Even after we both left that company, we remained friendly. When she got a new gig that brought her to an office building near mine, we’d meet for lunch occasionally.

One Spring day we wanted to get together but, for reasons that escape me, neither of us had time to sit down and eat. We agreed to meet and walk someplace to get lunch. The problem was we both wanted something different. I agreed to walk along with her where she wanted to go, then she’d walk with me, and we’d go back to our respective offices to eat. It was a pretty day, and we both wanted to get out.

First stop was the coffee shop in question that always sets me giggling. She bought a sandwich and a bottle of water. We recalibrated, and headed toward the offering of my choice. As we walked, she emoted about the gloriousness of the weather, some good news she’d gotten, several other topics, all accompanied by enthusiastic hand waving, and gesticulation with the sandwich bag and the water bottle.

Along the way, we met a woman who was a coworker of mine, who turned out to be a dear friend of Cathy’s. Cathy was delighted to see this friend—apparently they hadn’t spoken in some time—and there was more excited gesturing. As we continued on our way, Cathy expressed her pleasure at running into the friend, happily waving her sandwich and water to underscore her emotions.

We got to the deli where I wanted to buy my lunch. It wasn’t very crowded, but there were one or two people ahead of me. I got in line, and Cathy sat down to wait for me at one of the little tables they had set out. She put her sandwich bag on the table in front of her, and decided to open her water to have a drink.

She cracked the safety seal, and water spewed out in a fountain, fizzing everywhere. The geyser lasted whole seconds, sending water all over the table (although not on her sandwich) and the floor next to her. As the flood subsided, she sat there dumbfounded, staring at the puddles of water, I presume waiting for a dove with an olive branch. I confess, I started to laugh.

The woman who worked in the deli came out and mopped it up, and Cathy grabbed some napkins to clean up the table. I was still laughing when we left to walk back to our offices.

“Why is this so funny?” Cathy snapped (although to be honest, she wasn’t really angry).

“Because all the whole time we were walking, you were waving that bottle around like an overcaffeinated majorette in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Didn’t you know it was carbonated water?”

“No! I had no idea! And if you knew, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t know!” I said. “I assumed you knew what you were buying. How do I know what you bought?”

Mind you, I was still doubled over in hysterics and practically in tears. She finally dismissed me as vicious and cold hearted. I laughed all the way back to my office.

Cathy no longer works near me, so I am safe from exploding carbonated water bottles at her hands, but the memory can still make me laugh to this day. Maybe she’s right—maybe I am vicious and cold hearted.

Have you ever had a bottle of water explode all over you? Have you had someone laugh at something you did so hard that they cried? Have you ever been declared to be vicious and cold hearted?

Rolling in Dough

My high school was on what was referred to in the brochure as an “urban campus.” That sounds hip and kind of gritty, but all it meant was that the school was in the city, and not on a very large lot. Because it would have been impossible to constantly track the locations of 250 kids from 8:30 to 3 every day, we were given the freedom to leave “campus” (read: the building) during our free periods and at lunch.

There were several places we used to go, with the closest being a small liquor store on the ground floor of a nearby office building. The school brochure always reinforced that our patronage was for the purpose of purchasing chips and sodas. There was a Roy Rogers and a Burger King where we could get (comparatively) real food, although in later years the Burger King was deemed too far away for a single free period or lunchtime visit. Technically it was completely off limits, but if you had two free periods in a row they couldn’t very well stop you from venturing down there. However, if you did go, it was wise to keep it on the down low and not come back to school wearing one of the paper crowns they gave out to little kids, but that big kids always asked for, advertising your misbehavior. The frequency with which this happened might surprise you. Or not.

There were a few other sandwich shops—a Vie de France, a sub place—and then there was a Giant Food store. The Giant had what was then an exciting new feature: a salad bar. In a little round foil pan with a plastic lid you could, if you were me, drown a pile of unsuspecting iceberg lettuce in Ranch dressing, and pelt it with fake smoke flavored “bacon” bits and croutons that tasted of herbs, salt, and dust. Then you could wander over to the bakery and buy a cupcake festively decorated for the next major holiday with lavish amounts of shortening-based frosting.

There were a few kids who engaged in a more repulsive dietary ritual. They would buy an economy size tube of chocolate chip cookie dough, and eat it all day long. I confess I did this at least once that I can recall.

On the way to school, you’d stop at Giant and buy the roll. Then you’d risk enraging your orthodontist by using your teeth to rip off the little metal crimp that closed the plastic tube. The dough was cold, so you’d start out breaking it off in chunks, eating it on your walk the rest of the way to school.

Once at school, you were forbidden to take it into the classroom, so you’d leave it in your locker, where it would slowly soften to a goopy paste. Any time you visited your locker between classes, you’d squeeze out a mouthful. At lunch you’d polish off a bit more, although rarely did anyone finish a whole tube.

This is because eating nothing but cookie dough for five or six hours straight is one of the most repulsive things you can do as a human being. By about third period (around 10 a.m.), you felt faintly ill. Just before lunch period you were sort of regretting your decision to spend your entire lunch stipend on cookie dough. By the time lunch was over, you would swear this was the last time you’d consume cookie dough for the rest of your life, even though that meant you were ostensibly eschewing cookie dough for the next 70 years, give or take.

Kids generally only did this about once a year, because gross. Somehow we’d forget from one year to the next how revolting the whole experience was, and we’d do it again, only to recall that it was completely vile. We were kind of stupid that way.

Unfortunately, it’s not like the lunches I consumed on other days were so much more balanced and nutritious. I think there was a period of about four years when my lunch budget was a dollar a day. A dollar would buy you a 16 ounce soda, a bag of potato chips (or Nacho Cheese Flavor Doritos, which were a hot newcomer to the snack chip world), and a candy bar. Later I could afford to eat more lavishly when I started supplementing my allowance with babysitting money. I’m kind of surprised that prior to that time I didn’t develop some vitamin deficiency-related disease normally associated with seventeenth century sailors on long voyages, or third world inhabitants.

I will say that knowing what I ate when I was away from my parents during high school makes me a little scared for the period of their lives when my kids have control over their culinary selections when they’re away from home. I think you can understand why.

Have you ever overindulged is something and regretted it? Were your eating habits in your youth when you were away from your parents sketchy at best? Have you ever asked for a Burger King crown, even though you were at least a decade too old to wear one without the possibility of ridicule?

The Name Game

This morning I saw a moth hanging out above the mirror as I was putting on my makeup. I scowled at it and said, “I don’t want to catch you near my wool sweaters, Bernice.” Then I shook my head because realized I’d just addressed an insect by name, and given it an instruction I evidently expected it to follow.

 

I’d think I was insane (or possibly just stupid), but I have a friend I know for a fact does something similar. She names the squirrels that come up on her back deck. To be fair, she only names the ones she can recognize as “repeat visitors.” They come up to try to eat from the bird feeder, and she scolds them through the glass by name. You know, to deter them. Because, yeah, that makes it much more rational. About as rational as addressing a moth.

 

Another friend has confessed she regularly scolds things—animate and inanimate—that surprise her. Her husband is constantly asking her who she’s talking to when she’s startled by a fly and exclaims, “Henrietta! You scared the shit out of me!”  She used to be kind of shy about this fact, but the embarrassment of admitting she was scared by a fly, or possibly an end table, has apparently faded over the years, because she now freely admits to everyone that she does this.

 

Because you don’t think the circles I travel in are strange enough yet, I will also tell you that have at least two friends who have named their various cars. A college friend had “Beeper” in our Freshman year, and graduated to “Puff” (an Escort wagon—get it, “Puff the Magic…” yeah, I know).  Then there’s Lydia, who has had both “Norman” (the Neon) and “Tim” (the Toyota) in the time I’ve known her.

 

Lydia has also been known to name extremely random things, like her purse or her toaster. The only thing that bothers me about this habit of Lydia’s is she expects me to know who “Oscar,” “Petunia,” and “Maurice” are (her gym bag, vacuum cleaner, and cell phone, respectively). It’s hard to follow a conversation when she says things like, “I totally forgot Oscar today, and he had my work badge in him, so I couldn’t get into the office.” How the fuck am I supposed to make sense of that? It’s gotten so bad in the past I’ve had to ask for a scorecard, because of course she replaces something, and it doesn’t get the same name as the old one. When you replace Sylvester the hair dryer, you can’t call the new hair dryer Sylvester. Apparently.

 

I would think all of this was odd, and that my friends were all certifiable, except there is a memory I have from about age ten that has stayed with me. This memory makes me think the naming of things is a hereditary trait, something that one simply can't help doing.

 

Probably in the fall of the year, we had a very large spider in our dining room, way up by the crown molding. I suspect it was fall because that’s when these critters normally invaded our house. We once had a cricket who got in and ostensibly chirped for three months before we realized, in fact, the cricket had died after a week in our house, and the chirping was the warning noise of a low battery in a smoke detector that picked up right on cue and made us think we had an immortal cricket in our basement. We commented several times that it was an extremely hardy cricket. However, as usual, I digress.

 

Anyway, this spider hung out by the crown molding for about a week. He ranged around the room, checking out the corner by the plastic ivy plant hanging from the ceiling (providing that detail leaves no doubt that this was in the 70s), then the corner above the sideboard, taking in the sights. As spiders do. My dad started calling him “Abe.”

 

“There’s Abe—over by the picture.”

 

“Oh look, Abe’s on the other side of the room this morning.”

 

One day, Abe was gone.  My dad, of course, commented on the fact that he was missing.

 

You’d think that would be an end to it, but you don’t know my family. I swear to god, for years—years—well into my twenties, occasionally, not often, but perhaps every five or seven years, when a silence would fall over us at the dinner table, or when we were mindlessly watching a TV commercial, and my dad would say:

 

“I wonder what ever happened to old Abe?”

 

The thing is, when he said that I’d think, “Yeah, what did?"

 

Heredity. It's a sketchy game.

 

 

photo credit

Working at the Mall

My third job out of college was for a major long distance carrier. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the concept of “long distance,” back in the Dark Ages, if you wanted to call a person who lived far away from you, you had to use a “long distance carrier” to place the call. This was a company you chose based on how recently they had sent you a check to bribe you to switch to their service. The “big three” were Sprint, MCI and AT&T. The truth is that initially they all just bought capacity from AT&T, which owned the fiber optic network long distance calls were carried on, before eventually laying their own cable, but never mind that. In any event, I worked for one of these three (not really important which one).

 

 

Let's face it--they were pretty much interchangeable

I worked there for almost exactly one year before getting laid off, much to my delirious joy. The woman I worked for was a control freak and a helicopter boss. In that one year I had met six people that I’d gotten to know well enough to converse with, and they were the people in my department, the girl who sat across from me, and the girl who sat next to me. There are two reasons for this. First is that my helicopter boss handled all the communication with our internal customers. I remember sitting in one meeting to hear about a project we were going to be working on. One. And my boss did all the talking. All other projects I worked on came through her, and my output was returned to the customer through the same channel. The second reason is the people themselves. People at this company were just unfriendly. I would cross paths with them in the kitchen, and they would studiously avoid eye contact, and respond with only the most cursory of nods to any words of greeting extended to them. It was weird.

Our offices were in a high rise building that was connected to a mall. My cube looked out on the top deck of the parking garage. To get to the parking garage, I had to walk through the food court of the mall. It was actually a fairly convenient location—the lunch options were diverse, since we had access to the food court, and more than once I got up from my desk and ran down to pick up a birthday card or present on a short break.

Since I was there for almost exactly 365 days, I was able to observe two phenomenon that have stayed with me to this day.  The first is Christmas at the mall.

Many are the outraged tirades I’ve seen on Facebook about “starting Christmas too early.” Nordstrom famously—and, in my opinion, smugly—puts up signs after Halloween every year declaring that you won’t find any Christmas decorations in their stores until the day after Thanksgiving. La di fucking da. Isn’t the absence of those decorations enough to make it clear that they’re not rushing Christmas? But no, they have to put up signs patting themselves on the back for making sure Thanksgiving doesn’t get stomped on by Christmas being rolled out too early. Like Thanksgiving has feelings and gives a shit.

Since I was at this company in the early 90s, and stores hadn’t quite gotten to the point that they were putting out Christmas decorations the day after Halloween, Christmas sort of crept in to the mall next to my office. The first thing we noticed was that the muzak had some Christmas songs in the mix when we walked through the food court. Then we’d see the big decorations that the mall owned and put out every year. Santa’s chair was set up, and a sign told us when we’d be able to come see Santa in a few weeks. The stores started to decorate. By Thanksgiving, the mall was in full on Yuletide mode.

But the most prominent memory for me is the parking deck. Remember it was the view from my cube. I started this job in August or September (I forget the exact date), and for the first couple of months of my employment, I could look out on the deck and there might be three or four cars up there. Some days it was completely empty and remained that way.

But starting in late November, an interesting thing happened. More and more cars started parking up there. This mall isn’t far from the Pentagon and the offices that surround it, so lots of people would come over to the mall on their lunch hour to do their holiday shopping. By mid-December, looking down on the deck around lunchtime, it was almost half full. Then the amount of time during which the upper deck was somewhat full began to lengthen—there would be a good number of cars there from 10 or 10:30 until about 3 p.m., with almost all the spaces being taken during lunch. The week before Christmas, from about 9:30 a.m. until the time I left the office, the top deck was almost completely solid with cars. (We had reserved parking in another part of the garage, so I didn’t have to fight people for spaces, fortunately.) What I find interesting about this is that if the top deck was solid with cars, it meant that the four levels beneath it were too. That’s a lot of people, when you think about it.

Then the holidays passed, and winter changed to spring, and another interesting thing happened.

Washington, D.C. is a popular spring break destination. Schools from all over the country send groups of kids to D.C. to take in the history, tour the museums, and learn about our country’s early years. They also, apparently, make sure they get a chance to check out important landmarks like Banana Republic and The Gap, presumably so they can see how the D.C. locations of those stores differ from the ones they have in Raleigh or Cleveland or Omaha. (Spoiler: they don’t.)

Look it's Short Hills Mall! Or is it King of Prussia? Or possibly the Mall of America. Because THEY ALL LOOK THE FUCKING SAME.

Busloads of kids would be dropped off at the mall, where they would swarm through it, eating Auntie Annie’s pretzels and drinking Slushees and checking out chain stores that were exactly the same as the ones they had at home. I’ve never understood this. People travel thousands of miles so they can go try on the same tan chinos they could buy at a store ten minutes from their own homes. I could see if they went to Georgetown, or Old Town Alexandria. While those areas do have a few places that are nationally prominent, they have a lot of small boutique type stores with interesting and diverse merchandise. But these kids were salivating to get to Ann Taylor and The Limited so they could look at the same earrings and bangle bracelets that were for sale at every Ann Taylor on planet earth.

So I spent probably six weeks watching these kids exclaim with excitement when they discovered that this mall had all the same stores their mall had. Wasn’t that cool? Ohmuhgod, they totally have Eddie Bauer here too! Squee! Then the spring break season ended, and the crowds reduced back down to more normal levels, or at least were comprised of more adults than teenagers.

About three months after that, the director of my department called me into her office and informed me that they would have to let me go, that the amount of work the department was being asked to do didn’t justify my position, and they were eliminating it. Her manner clearly indicated that she was delivering what she thought would be bad news, and cause me great distress. The truth was I had to restrain myself to keep from kissing her full on the mouth. This was the best news I’d gotten in months. No more would I have to try to pry a pleasantry out of some surly office drone while I was microwaving a Lean Cuisine. Never again would I be given work to do in such a way that it felt more like homework than a professional contribution to an organization. And I can’t say I felt much in the way of regret when the rise of cell phones pretty much drove this particular long distance carrier out of existence. About the only thing I’ve ever missed was getting to see the parking lot at Christmas, and the throngs of kids in the spring. They were the most interesting parts of the whole job.

A Piece of Work

Our story today is about strange coworkers. Not mine, although I have worked with my share of weirdos, jerks, and assholes. No, this is the tale of the coworker of a friend who was so bizarre that she became a celebrity among my group. We begged my friend for current news of her, and texted each other when there were “sightings.” When she finally vanished, we mourned her going with genuine sorrow. But I mustn’t get ahead of my story.

 

I first became aware of this woman in a hamburger place near my office. My friend and her peculiar colleague worked about a block away from where my building is located. One morning I stopped in at the hamburger place that was across the street from us for a sausage breakfast sandwich, to find a well-dressed, middle aged, African American woman in line ahead of me. She wore a fabric rain coat, and had with her an oversized suitcase. I gave her little consideration—my office is downtown, not far from where the train boards for the airport. I assumed she was taking an early morning flight, and had stopped for something to eat. She was quite heavily packed, with not only the suitcase, but a backpack, tote bag, and purse.

 

But I continued to see her from time to time. Always with the same burden, always in the same raincoat, always looking extremely well put together. After a half a dozen sightings, I chanced to mention her to my friend.

 

Friend: “Oh, that’s Luggage Linda,”

 

Me: “Luggage Linda? Do you know her?”

 

Friend: “She works in my office.”

 

My friend at that time worked for a government-run utility.

 

Me: “And she brings that stuff with her every day?”

 

Friend: “Oh it’s worse than that. She takes it with her everywhere she goes. Bathroom. File room. Lunch. Everywhere.”

 

Me: “What’s in it?”

 

Friend: “No idea. No one has ever seen.”  

 

It turned out that Luggage Linda (and yes, Linda is her real name) was the receptionist for this government office. No one was ever clear why she brought all this stuff with her every day, nor why she kept it with her at all times. Linda, it transpired, was probably not too tightly wrapped. (I’m guessing you didn’t need to be told that.)

 

She constantly accused people of messing with her stuff while she was away from her desk. My friend assured me that, to the best of her knowledge, no one actually touched her belongings, but she was constantly railing at no one for rearranging things, or resetting the preset dial buttons on her phone. I’ve always thought it’s a really good thing she didn’t work in my office, because I wouldn’t have been able to resist the urge to actually do that sort of thing.

She was also terrified of a guy named Brian who worked for the same organization in a different group. She wouldn’t get on the elevator if he was on it (he worked on a slightly higher floor). She was sure, she said, that Brian left the office during the day and went to her apartment, where he would “go through her aprons.” (Yes, aprons. No, no idea why aprons.) Also, one time he’d “spilled salad oil on the floor.” It had to have been him, she insisted. Who else would have done it? It’s worth noting that, by all the accounts I heard, Brian was a very nice man who never did anything to threaten her, or arouse her fears. She was simply irrationally afraid of him.

She was a religious woman, and went to church regularly. I don’t know which church, but at some point, they grew weary of whatever peculiarities she displayed regarding organized religion (one assumes she was similarly paranoid about someone in the congregation, or within the ministry, as she was with Brian, or otherwise exhibited bizarre behavior commensurate with that in her professional life). They asked her to leave the church. I can only assume they told her, “Jesus loves you, but we’re over you.” It’s pretty bad when your church asks you not to come anymore.

 

On a somewhat sad note, she evidently had a daughter who lived somewhere in California. By her own account, the daughter was a PhD, and would have nothing to do with her. One doesn’t have to spend much time pondering that choice. However, it has occurred to me in later years that it’s possible said daughter (and/or her educational achievements) were fabrications. We have no real way of knowing, and it doesn’t really matter, but if it is true, I think it’s unfortunate.

The story of Luggage Linda has an unhappy ending, and a happy ending (there are two) depending, I suppose, on your point of view.

Linda began arriving for work late (half an hour or an hour), with the reason stated being an unexplained fear. Brian? Someone else? It was never disclosed. Her manager insisted she would need to take vacation to account for the time. She wanted to take sick time. The manager was adamant that it be vacation. HR got involved. As with many government agencies, the HR department of this particular organization was not in the same building. The HR rep came down to meet with Linda and her manager. Since this was the first time the HR rep had met Linda, it was the first time s/he realized to just what degree Linda’s grip on reality was questionable.

The HR rep decreed that Linda would need to undergo an evaluation in order to continue her employment. She was placed on leave until such time as she would agree to this condition. The grape vine information immediately following that announcement was that she had declared she would undergo no such procedure, and there the matter appeared to end. Linda no longer had a job there.

However, in doing research for this, I texted my friend to find out just what the fear was that ultimately resulted in Linda’s termination. I was informed that, lo and behold, Linda is back. In the same job. In the same office. (My friend has moved on to a different position in another building.) She is, it seems, limited to a single suit case now, with all the other paraphernalia being deemed disruptive and inappropriate for the workplace, but she is back as the receptionist for the government run utility down the street from my office. How she managed to pass the evaluation that was required for her clearance to return is uncertain. I’m sure Brian greeted her return with open arms, from which she no doubt fled in terror.

 

 

This is Linda. She goes through a suitcase about every six months. Shortly after these pictures were taken, she got an animal print one.



I Do I Do

When my husband and I announced we were getting married, everyone was very pleased. We’d been dating for a couple of years, and I got along well with his family. I was much better than his last girlfriend, it was agreed by all (better than a cheating psycho who once faked a pregnancy and then a miscarriage to get out of attending her grandfather’s 80^th birthday party—let’s be honest, I didn’t have to be that much better to be an improvement, but I like to think I was a lot better). Then his grandparents wanted to know which church we’d be getting married in. We struck a bit of a snag there.

My husband’s grandparents were Catholic. That didn’t stop them from getting married two months before my father in law was born, and then lying about the year of their marriage for the rest of their natural lives, because she’d gotten pregnant by accident in a set of circumstances that was never really clearly explained (I mean, some of it we can figure out from a basic knowledge of human biology, but there was a lot that was never divulged). But they claimed Catholicism as their religion, regardless of how loosely they may have adhered to its teachings at various times in their lives. My husband was raised Catholic, which, now that I think of it, I should revise to read “raised” Catholic, because I think the last time he was in church was Easter of 1972. I was not raised Catholic at all, and wasn’t about to convert to Catholicism and go through all that counselling and pre-marriage song and dance just to satisfy his grandparents (bless their hearts). They, however, declared that a wedding not in the church was invalid, and they would not recognize it. “If it’s not in the church, it’s not real,” I believe was their statement at the time.

I didn’t want to break it to them that I didn’t give a shit if they considered it “real” or not. It’s not like I was marrying David Rockefeller’s grandson, and he and Peggy disapproved of our ecclesiastical choice. There wasn’t a huge family fortune at stake here or anything like that. However, my husband was close to his grandparents and didn’t want to upset them. We spent a few weeks discussing options and finally decided that we didn’t want a religious ceremony at all. My husband’s godmother (who is also a cousin—a first cousin once removed, for those playing along at home) is married to a Federal Law judge. We wondered if a non-religious ceremony would satisfy them, or if they were going to scoff at that and insist on the Church.

Because they apparently had an unapologetically blatant double standard, they declared that, “If it was family, it was fine.” We asked the cousin’s husband if he would be willing to do this for us, and he agreed. He told us he needed to do some research, and would get back to us. About two weeks later, he called us and explained what he’d found out.

We were getting married in Virginia, in a county with the slightly dirty-sounding name of Fauquier (pronounced “Faw-KEER,” and if said quickly enough to someone unfamiliar with the name, sounds like something that might or might not be fightin' words). The judge called the Clerk of Courts in Richmond, and found out what Virginia’s policy was (at that time, anyway—I can’t speak to any changes in the last 18 years. This was our experience; your mileage may vary) for the performance of marriage ceremonies.

 

It's not all red in real life.

There is a body of individuals who are authorized to perform ceremonies carte blanche. This includes the clergy, and members of the judiciary within the state. There is also a group of a fixed number of laypersons who have been granted the right to marry people. Application is made to the state for these positions. Beyond that, it is possible to obtain permission to marry a specific couple on a specific day. This was what he was gunning for. Unfortunately, according to the Clerk of Courts, you had to be a resident of the county in which you were performing the ceremony. Since this man was not a resident of Fauquier county, we were screwed.

Except! Devious fellows, these legal types. If, he said, we got married before the “wedding,” he would put on his robes, stand in front of our guests, read our vows and “marry” us. But we had to be married before the wedding, he said.

We enlisted my future brother in law and his wife in our deceit. The day before our “wedding,” we went to the courthouse in the county in which we lived, bought a license (they didn’t even ask for ID—just typed our names as we dictated them. I like to think they’ve tightened up the restrictions on that since then), and went down the street to a judge’s office where we got married. My brother in law and his wife were witnesses. Given that it was a “civil” ceremony, I expected to have to promise not to bend, mutilate, or spindle or something, but no, they used love, honor, and cherish. Afterwards we went out for lunch, then went to our wedding rehearsal, and rehearsal dinner (which was, of course, really our wedding dinner).

The next day we got up and exchanged rings in front of 150 guests at what is now a spa and hotel (but was then a private house owned by the catering company we chose) in Fauquier county. Our rings have the two dates engraved in them. We celebrate our anniversary on whichever of the two dates is more convenient (some years, of course, neither is particularly, but when it’s Thursday/Friday, or Sunday/Monday, we pick the weekendier of the two days). Until a few years ago (when I started telling this story to anyone who cared—and probably a ton of people who didn’t) only six people knew we were married the day of our wedding—the cousin and her judge husband, my brother and law and his now-ex wife, and my husband and me.

In some ways, I recommend this approach. On the day of our actual wedding, I wasn’t the least bit nervous. I mean, I was already married to him. It was too fucking late, anyway. I was a little nervous on the Friday, but since there were only five of us in the judge’s office, I wasn’t a little nervous about getting married + a lot nervous that I was going to make an ass of myself in front of 150 of my closest friends. I might, on our wedding day, have been a little nervous about tripping over my dress and falling ass over teacup down the flight of stone steps we were standing at the top of. But the nerves of getting married didn’t push the making an ass of myself nerves over the edge (as they might have in other circumstances), and you’ll be relieved to know I managed to get down the steps and back up the aisle without mishap. And we’ve lived (mostly) happily ever after.