Tuesdays Are Becoming a Habit
I left the house at 11:15 for my shift at Ditto. It’s amazing that now – in Puck’s seventh week at school – I have barely had the chance to just sit and do anything leisurely. Not a bad thing.
Ditto was packed with second-hand bedding to organize. Personally: yuck. But apparently even in Kirkwood, this stuff sells like hotcakes. So that’s what I did for two hours: sort dust ruffles, sheets, comforters, blankets, pillow cases, curtains, rugs, tablecloths, and cloth napkins. I don’t know how it’s possible to sort linens that long and still not finish the whole project, but that’s what I did.
At least I wasn’t the only other volunteer available that afternoon. This woman spent a solid two hours of her afternoon vacuuming a small Persian rug to perfection. By the time she had finished, she slapped it on top of the “take out to the floor” cart.
“That had better sell,” she said with determination.
Meanwhile, I was on about the tenth gauzy curtain, checking for tears or stains. I felt like Queen Nefretiri examining imported cloth in “The Ten Commandments.” I don’t care if they are from Crate & Barrel or Ralph Lauren or whatever. I don’t like gauzy curtains.
“Want a pride flag?” the Sorting Room Lead nodded to a donations-to-donate trash bag.
Silky rainbow.
“I’ll pass. Thanks.”
Puck is always in a good mood after school these days. Once he’s filled me in on the day’s stats, however, he prefers some music for the road.
“Mom, can we stop talking now? I want to listen to my pump-up songs.”
So on goes “The Athletic Sports Band” instead.
The drive home was a little laborious. The crispy carcass of a former car sat by the highway, sucked of all life.
“How does a car catch on fire?” Puck asked as we drove by.
How does a car catch on fire?
Puck and friends ended by 6:30 that night. Most families eat dinner later than we do around here. Puck had already finished his salmon awhile ago. So next best playmate: Mom.
“LET’S GO KICK A BALL AROUND IN THE STREET, MOM! COME ON!”
So we did. Fun times. Soccer. Volleyball. Kickball. Whatever suits. Until El Oso rambled up in the black truck, and everything else was forgotten.
“DAAAAD! DAD! DAD! DAD!”