Unpacking the Suitcase
Little things, brought back from
Lunch with Popeye. Despite the awkward circumstances (mainly an overprotective mother) this was the second-highest point of the trip. Oh, and the fresh shiner, courtesy of Thomas, the Motherfucking Toddler-Propelled Tank Engine. I think now of how the Blogosphere turns things inside-out, and that the biggest secrets we had to share with each other are those anyone else can see; our faces, our everyday lives.
The retired pianist who lives in the house behind my parents' house. I'll get back to him when I find my damned notes. But the short of it is, he's always mowed his lawn wearing white gloves. This year, he did not, as if he's settled in.
Going through security in
"Now you can say you met a giant," he said, zipping up the bag.
"I will. And you can say you met a family of Hobbits," I answered back. "See? Barefoot even." I held up my foot and wiggled my toes at him. He clapped, and everything in the airport stopped; including time, I think.
And the boyos. The fact that not less than seventeen people stopped to comment on their beauty between the gate and baggage claim. Two women offered to be their agents. Sometimes I feel like I'm just the handler for a couple of celebrities.