Strange men are checking me out. Don’t be jealous. It sure satisfied a few secret fantasies of mine. My birthday, I must say, is starting out fabulously. But the fantasy doesn’t include me strapped to a gurney and paramedics peppering me with questions.
Five minutes earlier.
I have been shopping at IKEA for half an hour when all of a sudden I felt light-headed and broke out in cold sweat. I knew I needed to sit down—real soon. In my hand was the store map. Christ, I can’t figure out the layout even when I am not woozy. Bedroom section? No, too far. Living room section? No, it’s upstairs. I was heading toward the marketplace area when my legs just gave out. I didn’t even realize I had fallen until the IKEA employees on the floor rushed by my side. Embarrassed, I tried to get up to show I am okay. Doug who works there insisted I don’t. A shopper who plays a doctor on TV guessed, “Maybe she is pregnant.” (No, folks. Hi, Mom!)
Doug’s sweet.
He asked, “Have you eaten today?”
I replied, “Yes.” I know better than to shop at IKEA on an empty stomach.
He deadpanned, “Did you have the food here? It could be that.”
I laughed, “You must get horrible employee performance reviews if you diss your workplace.”
IKEA personnel are milling around me: getting me a drink of water, arranging for an ambulance to come, etc. At this point I was fine; the light-headedness left as quickly as it came. I felt sheepish and looked it, I bet. Doug scooted down and sat beside me so it would look like “we are just hanging out on the floor”.
An IKEA manager asked me what had happened.
He: Did you hit your head when you fell?
I:No, thank goodness! I need all my brain cells.
He: I know this may be personal but I have to ask: do you think you could be pregnant?
I: No.
Doug, who witnessed the whole thing, filled in the other details. Another employee, Giovanni, opened the yellow IKEA shopping bag I was carrying. When I collapsed, all the items inside broke on impact. Please don’t make me pay for the intended purchases, I thought. It could be costly, very costly. Like the TV pundits explained the economic recovery will rely on consumers, like you and me, to jump start things. What was inside: a pair of identical salt shakers, off-white, Christmas tree-shaped, artsy-looking. I picked it up at the as-is/no returns or exchanges section. They were twenty-five and thirty cents. I splurged, needless to say. Buying the salt shakers was an emotional purchase. I kid you not. Let’s not forget what happened the last time I frittered my money away on them.
The Salt Shaker Story
I didn’t know whether to be angered or amused at the woefully unambitious thief. Good thing I cheaped out at the dollar store; I didn’t get the salt and pepper shaker set. (Pepper is a bourgeois luxury, I tell you!) Now that would have been a colossal loss, a loss the restaurant cannot recoup. The plastic salt shaker cost a whopping $0.33 and it came prefilled with salt. I couldn’t resist. Apparently the low-life who stole it couldn’t either. For years it rankled me. There is a level of hell reserved for him. May he choke on his perfectly seasoned food!!!
So back to the ambulance. They are taking my vitals and entering my info on the computer.
“Could you be pregnant?”
“No, I am just fat.” =)
“Date of birth?”
“10/22/1980.”
“Happy birthday!”
I did intend to have a happy birthday. I was actually jazzed! Somehow things are not panning out as I had hoped. Collapsing in public didn’t figure into my plan.
“What are your plans for the day? Cake, party?”
“Not today. I am a party-pooper. Next week I will celebrate with my friends.”
The curly-haired paramedic smiled and remarked, “It’s good to have someone to poop with.” It was such an elegant statement.
What I ended up doing on my birthday:
*I ate one of my favorite foods, ramen noodles (i.e. the breakfast of champions) which made me happy.
*I played hooky from work which made me happy.
*I had strangers display genuine concern for my well-being which also made me happy.
*I have family and friends who care about me which make me happiest of all. And none of y’all has stolen my salt shakers, to boot. Thank you!
Sincerely,
Ahhyee
P.S. After I was checked out by them, I went back and continued my shopping. I am a woman; I have to maintain the reputation of my species. Abort a shopping mission? Never! (I have weird priorities.) This reflects my new positive outlook, you soldier on no matter what.
No, no, no, kiddo. That's not what you write in your profile if you want to get adopted. Write "I like doing homework and housework" instead. Kids are guileless; that's what endearing about them.
If I were the case worker, I would have a hard time editing the blurbs of the foster kids. You want to remain true to the essence of the kids but you also need to maximize the chance of them getting adopted.
