Party

I don't understand why people who work for tips should be exempt from paying taxes.  From now on, all my payments for anything will be in the form of a tip.  Hell, it should be a tax-free society.  That'd fix things.  Taxes take away about 25% of people's wages.  Will the amount we need to tip go down by 25%?  I mean, people will be paying, by and large, with money they made from wages that were taxed.  Maybe.  There is a huge underground economy that is never reported.  Every mom and pop store that takes cash only, for instance, underreports how much they take in.  Maids and yardmen paid in cash.  Home repair guys.  The list goes on.  

I got an ad for THC drinks here in my own home state where cannabis is only legally if you have a medical card for it.  I decided I'd try one, so before I went to the cafe, I stopped at the liquor store and bought two small bottles and some more faux-liquor.  

"Have you tried this stuff before?" asked the man behind the counter.  He was talking about the faux-liquor.

"Yes."

"Does it taste like. . . ."

"No.  Nothing like it.  But it has a strong flavor, so it is somewhat satisfying.  

He didn't ask about the THC drink.  

I hopped across the street to the cafe.  The Sunday girl who makes mimosas for me was working.  The line was not long, but the kids were irritating.  They never know what they want and ask a thousand questions while looking at one another with puzzled faces.  Then they order something that will take forever to make.  So. . . while standing in line, I decided to take another Cafe Mirror selfie.  Just because I think I am looking so good.  

O.K. I look like Gandalf or some homeless pedophile, but, you know. . . it IS a look.  Now that I'm looking at it, I'm surprised I don't get picked up by the police for questioning.  

"Where are you going?  Where have you been?  Can I see some I.D."

But here at the old cafe, I don't stand out that way.  

Maybe I should cut my hair, one of those longer top, shorter sides things.  But that is a topic for another time.  

When I got to the counter, my friendly server lit up.  

"Hey you."

"Sunday Girl.  What are you doing here on a Saturday?"

She shrugged.  "I just came in from my ballet class."

"I was going to ask you why your underwear are showing.  Thought maybe it was a statement."

"I still have on my dance tights."

"How long have you been doing ballet?"

"Three years."

"Since you were three or for the past three years."

"Oh, no. . . not since I was three.  I'd be a professional by now."

"You're starting a little late.  Where do you take lessons."

"At the Gotham Ballet."

"Really!  I shot a short documentary for them a long time ago.  It was something.  We started shooting when the dancers came back from summer break.  They were in terrible shape.  Heavy.  Couldn't leap.  When they hit the floor they sounded like elephants.  But they started smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee and eating only gummy bears and in a few weeks they were soaring again."

"I was like that when I first started taking classes.  Today I was in a class with some new people and I realized how far I've come."

She looked fit and radiant.  I ordered a latte.

"I'm here tomorrow, too," she said.  

"I'm not drinking.  Doing Dry January.  May do dry February, too.  I've lost weight.  Look.  I practically have cheekbones."  I sucked in my cheeks.  She laughed.  Maybe tomorrow, I thought. . . I'd ask her to. . . but I knew I wouldn't.  It wouldn't be right.  

The rooms were full and the weather was nice, so I went outside to write.  I tried, but I didn't have anything about which to write.  

"I went to the gym and ran and walked on the treadmill.  Then I did twenty minutes on the bike.  I stretched for about fifteen minutes then went out to lie by the pool in the weak winter sun.  Home to soak and shower and do a load of laundry.  Looked for something in my old email and found some emails I sent from work in order to preserve for posterity.  

CS

I met you at the Village Bistro during the art festival, we drank some wine together? You know, the insanely intelligent and overpoweringly beautiful dancer? I knew you would remember. I wanted to write to you and start exchanging stories, and even though I am not yet going to send you my perspectives essay it will come in time. So here's my start, go to town on the revisement:

Okay, so write me back, change the story, I don't care. Tell Kathy and Duffy that I said hi...and drink another glass of the chardonnay for me!

Kathryne

I've spared you the story she sent.  I tried to write her back, but my emails never went through and I could never understand why.  Perhaps she blocked me after writing, but I don't know if you can do that with email.  These were olden times after my divorce.  I tried to call up her image, but couldn't quite.  But that's the way it used to be.  Those were golden times.  

It started getting chilly and I needed to get to my mother's as I told her I would take her to the grocery store.  She wanted to get out of the house.  But when I got back, she said she didn't want to go now.  Maybe tomorrow.  So. . . I was back at my mother's house on a Saturday afternoon locked in for the rest of the day.  

"What do you want for dinner?"

"I ate the leftover shrimp and rice.  I don't really want anything."

I didn't feel like cooking a big meal for one, so I decided to get one of those Asian noodle bowls and fill it with chicken and avocado.  And that is what I did.  

At eight, I decided to try the THC drink.  I drank half and turned on the t.v.  It hit quicker than a gummy.  In a bit I drank the other half.  There was a kick to it, but it was fairly subtle.  I felt like I was cheating on Dry January, though.  A couple hours later, I drank the other little bottle.  

And at ten, I went to bed.  

Holy Moly, I have the life.  

That's the report.  That's all I have.  Today will be just as exciting.  I may while away the afternoon and evening watching football.  Not because I watch football, but I have nothing else to do here.  I've been invited to a party which I can't attend.  Selavy.  

I just soldier on.