Thank you = Wingardium Leviosa

While there is little in common between a Shakespearean drama and a supermarket (then again, writing is often about connecting what should not be connected), both manage to capture a vibrant and intriguing cross-section of the human race. Clownish employees, teenage drama queens, a secret colony of little people who know more than they let on-apparently people of all sorts need groceries, and it is amusing to watch those who join parade. 

There are also people who are not endearingly eccentric or quintessential, but merely unbearable. People who shove, snatch, cut lines for food samples, and are inexplicably rude. And though I am bound to encounter at least one such specimen between getting more toilet paper and trying to find cucumbers still wrapped in bubble wrap, I am always taken by surprise when I do. 

I would like to think that what bothered me later as I sifted through the selection of TV dinners was a bout of righteous anger, but there is little to justify such wrath. The man did not wrestle away a bottle of shampoo I was sniffing, insult me for speaking English loudly with my sister, or even ram his shopping cart into the box of bottled water on purpose. He did nothing but maneuver his shopping cart around me as I shuffled over to help him right the box, did nothing but fail to utter two, monosyllabic words of gratitude. And it was this omission that haunted me. His failure to say thank you plagued me so deeply that I continued to rant to Emily for the next forty minutes as we tried to lay out such discourtesy in logical terms. Did he think I was the cleaning lady? Had he been distracted by the new loofahs on display? Was he mute-perhaps his tongue been cut out by pirates? And because I often relish over-analyzing my own actions when others do not act as I expect them to, I then tried to remember if I had grimaced or drooled, if my nose had been dripping or my neckline too low.

It is easy to overlook the little courtesies. Words like "excuse me" and "thank you" have little practical value, and there is no doubt that I am perfectly capable of getting that bag of flour for you whether or not you begin your request with a "could you" or "please." And yet, these words have become part of a ritual that is repeated hundreds of times each day because they serve to assure those around us that nothing is amiss. That the world that they know is still in place, and that the flimsy decrees governing human interaction still stand. Excuse me, I just need to get through to the stairs, don't worry, I am not being chased by a hungry mob of pirates that may trample you all in the next few minutes, or cut out your tongues. Bless you, I am sure your sneeze is just a cold and not some incurable fungal infection that will eventually spread to your liver. Thank you, the box of bottled water has been efficiently rearranged, and we can now go on with our lives. Everything is as it should be.

Of course, it would be melodramatic and absurd to say that I am now unable to go on with my life. And perhaps someone less prone to unnecessary analysis would have simply forgotten the encounter the second it ended. But the exchange that failed to take place in that bottled water aisle today wasted an evening of my life, and that, boys and girls, is why "please and thank you are called the magic words." 

The first installment

Had it not been the slippers, it almost certainly would have been something else.

Even now, as he squatted behind the wooden elephant umbrella stand and candy wrappers that had somehow gathered inside his front door, he smiled at the way things had turned out. Smiled to himself as though this routine of lurking behind the umbrella stand, listening for the footsteps that would leave No. 201 so that he could finally begin his own day, was merely a game he happened to be playing. As though the 54 tardies he had collected since the first Tuesday of March and the discomfort of eating breakfast wedged between a shoe cabinet and the wall were things to be dismissed, even laughed at. As though he were kneeling in dirt and bread crumbs simply because he wanted to.  

In truth, he had been driven to this particular spot behind the umbrella stand by a series of incontrovertible truths. He could not arrive at the supermarket before eight because he could not leave the house until he had heard Mrs. Kendricks, who lived in No. 201, step out into the hallway, water her pea plants, jingle her keys, and lock her door. He could not leave the house until he heard these sounds because he could not chance an encounter with Mrs. Kendricks. And he could not chance an encounter because he could not bring himself to tell her about the slippers. It was all as logical and as inevitable as the progression of a chemical reaction, and he had no choice but to look on. 

Eating watermelon

When eating a slice of watermelon, it is necessary to start from the bottom and work your way up, even if this means gnawing though several inches of tough, tasteless rind. This way, when the white flesh and stringy fibers have been digested, there will be left a single tip of perfectly orchestrated sweetness. The pinnacle of your watermelon experience. With this, all the sour bits, the disappointing bits lose meaning, and you can no longer remember when things were not so sweet, or you were not this content. 

To think what life would be if this phenomenon could apply to all things. A difficult semester, a new job, a rocky romance. What if all the best parts, the worthwhile bits, were saved for the end? What if you could wallow into the mire with the conviction that it was only going to get better from there? Not only do you get your custom-made happy ending, but it becomes something you have earned, something not merely bestowed or stumbled upon by chance, but planned for and now savored.

If only life could be eaten like a watermelon slice.

Father to daughter

When my dad doesn't know what to say to me, he asks about the last time I washed my hair. These episodes tend to occur while we are in an elevator or a waiting area, and are often witnessed by uncomfortable  bystanders. While ignoring him convinces him that the inquiry must be repeated so that those in the shop next door can hear as well, answering my dad only leads to questions more cringeworthy and specific. What do you mean "recently"? Wednesday or Thursday? Did you use the dandruff shampoo last time? Did you scrub clockwise? Did you rinse twice? Maybe you should wash your hair again tonight. Ten years of communication have accomplished little: my dad has yet to learn that the other people waiting for their dentist appointments should not be subject to the details of my shampooing regimen, and I have yet to discover a way to deflect these questions without losing it. 

What infuriates me is not so much my dad's tactlessness or his inability to keep his volume down in public, but rather his persistence in asking the questions I don't want to answer. He seems to relish latching onto subjects I have labelled either taboo or pointless, subjects such as my personal hygiene, and pestering me to discuss them. I do not know what he is trying to find in my answers-knowing when I last rinsed my hair hardly offers a glimpse into matters of the heart. It is of great importance whether I ate toast or porridge for breakfast, but arguments I've had with friends, doubts I've had throughout the day, insecurities I've acquired usually go unmentioned. Of course, by the time it occurs to my dad to ask me about such things, I am probably already fuming about having to repeat the lunch menu for a third time. It is as though, in groping through the dark, we always miss each other.

Yet, for two people who must resort to arguing about how often hair should be washed, we also share a strange collection of habits and mutual understandings. Like my dad, I ask lots of questions during TV shows, spend most of my time satiating a relentless sweet tooth, and have a soft spot for rabbits in green pajamas. We both tend to leave sweaty socks behind the bathroom door, cough in a way that infuriates my mom, and care entirely too much about the way others see us. My dad is a stickler for rules regarding anything from traffic to recycling, and though I hold romantic notions about being a rebel, breaking the rules usually leaves me feeling nauseous.There is an understanding that if I let my dad buy a 珍珠奶茶 on the way home, he'll buy me one too, and that if I cook anything, even charred carrot bits, he must praise it. 
Though I sometimes forget it, I am my father's daughter, and this somehow makes the searching worthwhile.

caca by mayelle

The art of surprising yourself

There is no surprise like one you leave for yourself. Perhaps it is the chicken salad sandwich you left in your purse several days ago because you decided to eat a granola bar instead, the sweaty socks you crammed into the recesses of your backpack after basketball practice last Tuesday, the roll of dollar bills you accidentally left in the medicine cabinet the last time you were looking for band-aids.

Why wait for others to leave you surprises when you can take care of it yourself? Save a slice of cake and hide it behind the leftovers in your refrigerator. Stow a couple of quarters into a bag you've forgotten you had. By the time you rummage through the leftovers from last week, or unearth that bag again during spring cleaning, that cake, those quarters will have become gifts, far exceeding their original value. The delight and self-congratulation that comes with these discoveries, the certainty that there are more blessings to stumble across and the freshness of suddenly looking forward to the day ahead. You are charmed, all because you thought to keep a few coins buried away.

Then again, there are surprises you probably don't want to leave for yourself. Overdue phone bills, smelly laundry, fingernail clippings, unrefrigerated ice cream, expired gift cards. The homework assignment you accidentally left between the pages of your biology textbook and did not find until the morning it was due. The coupon for free yogurt you finally collected enough stamps on but never got around to using until it was too late. These surprises spring out from nowhere and pound away at your optimism and measure of self-worth. At these moments, you lament the loss of free yogurt and the curse of your own forgetfulness.

Until you find the surprise you left for yourself in the medicine cabinet, and the world is right once more.

Half-eaten

Half-eaten snacks are the usual fare around here-at least when I attempt to bring home anything remotely edible. An bag of chips already opened, a sandwich with most of the ham and cheese missing.To most, receiving a half-eaten sandwich would be anything but a sign of affection, but Emily has come to speak this language of "leftovers." She knows when I say, "I brought a something for you" and uncover a slightly flattened doughnut with teethmarks in it, I mean "I thought of you today while sitting in Mister Donut, so I left half of this for you."And when I rummage through expired coupons and loose change after a day out to fish out a crumpled bag of grape gummies from the depths of my purse, she knows that it is an apology of sorts, for not spending the day with her.

Of course, if given the choice, I would choose a chocolate eclair untouched in its wax paper wrapping, every sprinkle still in place. Emily would probably do the same-I cannot flatter myself into thinking that every unwrapped, half-eaten pastry I bring home is somehow worth an entire bun to her. Even the waitress gave me an incredulous look when I asked her to pack the few strands of pasta left in my plate into a takeout box. But in collecting these tidbits of food and snacks, it is as though I am collecting bits of my day to share with her-the lemon ice tea I bought at Hi-life after shooting hoops at school, the sausage I ordered from a vendor near the thrift store, the bit of penne with meat sauce I saved from dinner with friends at the Italian restaurant downtown.

I may be hopelessly possessive when it comes to food. I may often find myself absentmindedly munching on whatever I happen to be holding, and may be addicted to gummies, doughnuts, and sugary snacks. Perhaps I bring home half-eaten snacks because I can do no better. But I like to think that, in bringing Emily half of a doughnut or a few rolls from dinner, I am somehow telling her that I wish she could have been there too.   

Someone to talk to