Jingle Bugs, and Other Pre-Prandial Treats

Jingle Bugs, Jingle Bugs, jingle away all day--
Oh what fun it is to crack open a book and not be able to tear yourself away...

Holiday 2004 tales to amuse you:

JINGLE BUGS, AND OTHER PRE-PRANDIAL TREATS

PENNY ROULETTE

Straining to reach the top shelf to retrieve the last bottle of Anapamu Pinot Noir, I spotted a tall, lanky fellow who I figured wouldn’t mind helping me. We proceeded to engage in the following conversation:
Would you (pointing to the bottle)?
Yes.
Thank you.
Is it good?
Yes, it’s almost good enough to eat.
Jammy? You mean, it’s jammy?
Yes, indeed. Jammy, what a great name!
Well, I’d better know. I’ve been in the food distribution business for over twenty years.

By now we were in the express lane. Another man, an Indian, piped in:
I’m also in the food business. Let’s just call it, “The Game of Pennies.”
Mr. Jammy nodded in agreement.
Pennies? I asked.
Everybody steals food—that’s why restaurants go under, the Indian replied.
If you grab a shrimp or two from the buffet table on the way to or from the kitchen, it builds up, added Mr. Jammy.

And I thought Russian roulette was a hard game to win.

165 words

THE PERLE-LY GATES

It’s a good thing Roberta had Power of Attorney for me at the Mary Street closing, for my mini visit to the Bascom Palmer was turning into a marathon. First, I’d had to wait in an alternate waiting room just to confirm my appointment. And then came the really long haul in the sometimes-dreaded second corridor. At least I had on a long-sleeved jacket and November’s Elle. An overzealous biology student couldn’t have dissected it more thoroughly.

Peering up from time to time, an elderly lady caught my attention. I’m waiting to see the god, she said. About three hours later, when I finally found myself in the inner sanctum – i.e., inside the god’s consultation room – I heard her voice again.

Stepping outside, we spoke. She’d had many things done to her eyes over the years, and had first dealt with the god in Philadelphia, she said. He invented Xalatan, you know. No, I didn’t. But if that’s what will continue to do the job with me for some time to come, I’m grateful.

Mrs. Perle, an attendant called out. Oh, my. It was almost time. If the Perle-ly Gates were about to be open, my turn couldn’t be far behind.

When I finally had my audience with the god, I asked him when I could dismiss the possibility of developing glaucoma. He responded, “Not to be flippant, (but) when you die.”

Not ready, yet. Out the Perle-ly Gates I went, and into the reception area. At the end of the day, there was some semblance of calm. The efficient cashier and I chatted. This place is like a McDonald’s drive through during the winter months, he said.

On the way to the parking lot, I struck up yet one more conversation, with an elderly Yugoslav couple. They’d both had extensive work done on their eyes. You see the god, she said. He’s the best.

Yes, he’s the best. I’d been spared not only a dilation, but also a closing. I’ll have to pay the piper, though, next time I go through the Perle-ly Gates.

345 words

NO BUTTS

Later that day, I ended up at Houston’s. A champagne and vegetable plate later, I was almost ready to leave, when two of the foursome next to me and I struck up a conversation. Hard to resist, as el cubano kept saying, “Soy cubano cien por cien.” OK. You were born here, I thought to myself.

A little rotund, and friendly, Antonio was his name. His slightly chubby counterpart, Lourdes, and I turned out to have something in common: we were both teachers. Kindergarten, at her end. My hat’s off to you, I said. You write? Come to my school, she said. I handed her my card.

Antonio continued preening in a nice way. After all, he’d just met Lourdes. Dancing. Let’s go dancing, he said. Even to me. Have to go, but, thanks. By the way, what’s this “Soy cubano cien por cien” bit, I asked.

SI, soy cubano, he said. Telling him about myself, he said, turn around. I obliged, pirouetting around in my relatively low-riders. You have a Hungarian face, he said, but… a Cuban butt. I was dismayed, and demurred, no. Oh, yes, you do, he chuckled. I sighed: there’s a first time for everything.

No ands, ifs, or butts.

204 words

TARGET MAKEOVER

Whiling the hours away at the Coral Ridge Mall before Danish Furniture Center’s traditional holiday party, I was fixated on getting a pair of black pants. Anything to not have to deal with the practical, functional, but definitely shapeless and unattractive black linen CP Shades I’d dragged out of the closet earlier in the day, matching it with an attractive enough three-quarter sleeve black top interlaced with a satin ribbon on top. The only thing that really appealed to me out of the whole outfit was my ballerina Manolos.

The TJ Maxx almost yielded something. Marshall’s, zip. Disheartened as the party hour approached, I decided to tackle the Target. At the very least, perhaps I’d unearth a garment from Mizrahi’s collection – at least the retro black pleated satin skirt I hadn’t found in my size at my local Target, and had had to settle for the mauve version. Well, not actually settle, for it’s a lovely skirt.

As in Westchester, Coral Ridge had plenty of mauve, but not black. The young woman in charge of the dressing rooms began to assist me: no, the mauve won’t go with that sweater. But it’s a match, I said. No. Well, I’m not known for being visual, at least in the traditional sense. So I decided to stick to black.

Several combinations and permutations later, I finally found a slightly dressy top that appeared to go perfectly with a simple black skirt. There! With garments in hand, I rushed to buy some pantyhose. The party had officially begun.

Returning to the dressing room with my purchases, I changed, right then and there. The Manolos were – are – always in style. Out I went, looking like a subdued million bucks. Hopping in my car, I had missed out on only about forty-five minutes when I arrived at the party and joined in the merry-making.

I must have looked decent enough, for I actually made the acquaintance of one rather strange architect and his parents. He liked the outfit, he said.

Of all places to provide me with a makeover, I never dreamed it would be a Target. And I did it with Merona, rather than with Mizrahi. Fancy that.

364 words

CLUELESS

The Cuban teller at the bank got me going. You’re Hispanic? She asked. Yes. Sometimes it peeves me so. I couldn’t resist posturing, pouting, and playing dumb all at the same time, and even mentioned my list of the thirty things Anglos should do if they want to act like Cubans. I didn’t know it took thirty things to make one a Cuban, she guilelessly responded.

She got me.

69 words

JINGLE BUGS

BEEEP. There was this constant BEEEP in the background. I didn’t know if it was coming from inside or outside the bookstore, but it was downright annoying.

Waiting in a long line, I began to examine the holiday merchandise heaped on the tables approaching the cash registers. A little child’s book caught my attention: Jingle Bugs. It was one of those open the flap, pull on the tab types that are irresistible to me, even at my age.

Flipping through the pages, quietly – yet delightedly – I reached the last two. “What tops the tree, all gold and glimmering? A shiny Starbug softly shimmering.” I read. I was instructed to open the box at the base of the tree and pull down the black flap. Doing just that, Jingle Bells began to play. Oh, how cute, how sweet, I said to myself, as I placed the book back on the table.

The BEEEP continued to no end. And now it was joined by an audibly tinny version of Jingle Bells, playing over and over again. I could barely believe my ears! Finally realizing Jingle Bugs would serenade me until it fizzled out, if I let it, I returned to the book and pulled the flap back up. There.

Now to turn off the BEEEP: easier said than done. Leaving the store, I realized it was outside. No amount of dashing through the sun was going to extinguish that one.

238 words