Failed retail therapy

So, here's the story: I drove to Laguna Beach, because I'd never been there before. I stopped at two bookstores, where I chatted with some nice people about books, and then on my way back to my car, I noticed The Sunglass Hut and decided to get new sunglasses. When I went in, the fat guy behind the counter was telling his lone customer, a middle-aged lady, about polarized lenses. At the end of his speech, she said, "Gosh, I'd never even heard of polarized lenses before."

"They're not for everyone."

"Well, I'm going to have to think about whether I need them or not." And she split.

I said, "You're lucky -- I already know I want polarized lenses." I meant it as a little joke, but his cell phone rang just as I said it.

Then I did at least four laps of all the cases while he told someone, "I need the money before Friday! You can transfer it to my account! I gotta have the money!"

He hung up, said, "Sorry," and drummed his fingers on the counter. After a moment or two, he asked, "What are you here for?"

"Sunglasses."

"Do you want plastic frames or wire frames?"

"I'm not sure. But I do know I want polarized."

He then launched into the exact same polarized spiel he told the other lady. I kept trying to tell him I already knew I wanted polarized lenses, but he just talked over me.

Finally, I said, "Cut the spiel. I've heard it already. My last pair were polarized. I like polarized. I am going to buy polarized."

He stared at me. Then he asked again whether I wanted plastic or wire. I said, "My last pair was wire, but there's a chance I might find them again, so I'm thinking I should get plastic this time. I have a small face, though, so wire maybe looks better on me."

"And...the answer is?"

"I'm not sure."

I went from case to case, pointing and asking, "Is that polarized? How about that one?" He answered yes or no so quietly, I almost thought I was just imagining the tension.

Every so often, he'd say, "You know, it'd be a lot easier on me if you'd just tell me whether you want plastic or wire."

"I'm not sure."

Finally, when I asked to see both a plastic and a wire frame at the same time, he yelled: "How am I supposed to help you when you refuse to tell me whether you want plastic or wire??"

We stared at each other a moment, like two animals contemplating mutual destruction. Then I said, "I've changed my mind. I don't want to buy sunglasses today." I started heading out.

"You know what? F--- YOU! F--- YOU!!!!"

I turned around. "Pardon?"

"F--- YOU AND GET OUT OF MY STORE!!"

"This is your store?"

"F--- YOU! GET OUT OF MY STORE!"

I thought, once I explain things, he'll feel bad.

"What did I do?"

"I asked you, do you want plastic or wire frames! You don't answer. I try to tell you about polarized lenses. You call it a spiel! Well, f--- you, bitch! Get out of my store!"

I waited until he paused for air, then said, "You know, today is the anniversary of my mom's death, and I'm a bit distracted. So, I'm sorry I didn't seem sensitive to your spiel."

Maybe if I had come up with another word besides spiel, it would have worked, but my heart was pounding and it was hard to think. Anyway, it just set him off anew. "I'm sorry about your mom, but you were rude to me. I want you out of my store!"

Then...I can't believe I said this, but...I said, "Someday, after your mom dies, if she's not already dead," (I tried to look sympathetic as I said this, thinking maybe he was an orphan and that's why he was so horrible), "maybe you'll remember this and learn to be a bit more polite."

A couple walked in just as I was saying that. I am not really happy I said that.

He screamed, "You come in here, you try and make me guess what you want, plastic or wire, you won't let me tell you what polarized means, and now you're insulting my mom. F--- YOU, C--T!!!!"

The woman shook her head at her husband and they left.

Suddenly, I had an insight: "Are you on drugs?"

He screamed just like that Democratic candidate in the last primaries, who lost the election when he went, "We're going to Ohio, then Nebraska, then Wyoming! AAAHAGAHGAHTEYAAA!" Then he ran out from behind the counter into the backroom, waving his arms. I really thought he was going to come back with a gun or something. So, I left.

Word of the day: apostate

I finally looked up the word 'apostate'. I'll always remember how dumb the nursing assistant looked, when Mom declared that as her religion. (Of course, I didn't know what it meant, either. But then, I knew my mom, so that gave me a clue.)

The woman just stood there, staring first at my mom, and then at her clipboard; I realize now she had to check a box, and she had no idea which one.

"Does that, like, make you Evangelical?" she asked, her pencil poised.

"No, I guess that would make me apostical," Mom said, chuckling.

The nursing assistant finally marked something -- I wonder what? And then asked her her food preferences.

The next morning, Mom had to go to the Intensive Care Unit.

After a few days, a middle-aged woman came by and stared at me significantly through the room's glass wall. She was wearing an old, sack-like dress (I remember the shoulder pads had metastasized forwards). I finally went out and asked her what she wanted.

She said, "I'm the minister on duty this weekend, and I'm told your mother may need to speak with me."

"Who told you that?"

"They give me a list of patients in the ICU before I make my rounds." She waved a piece of paper, like it was an entry ticket.

"I don't think she'd be interested."

"Are you sure? The relationship with God is a very personal one."

"My mother can't speak right now."

She looked at me as if I were a bouncer blocking her entrance into some exclusive nightclub.

"I can offer words of comfort, then."

When you're in the ICU for awhile, things get weird. This woman seemed so confident of her god-given abilities, I almost believed her.

I went in and stood over my mother, while the minister stared at us expectantly. Mom's eyes were closed so tightly, I knew she wasn't asleep. I looked back at the minister, and she nodded.

"Mom, do you want to speak to a minister?"

She opened her eyes instantly and shook her head no. To me, it was deafening.

"I'm sorry. I'll tell her to go away. She just comes and visits everyone. It doesn't mean anything."

I went back out. "No."

"Maybe later?"

"No. I should have told you, my mother's an apostate."

It seems when a straight-out No doesn't work, a weird reply often does. The word seemed to puncture the woman's messianic armour, revealing the baggy panty-hose underneath.

"Well, then. May God bless you." Her thin, colorless lips tightened, as she added an unspoken, "because I certainly can't."

I felt like I was watching a smack-down match between her conceit and her belief. In any case, she grabbed both and marched away.

How not to deal with grief

It was Saturday morning. I was supposed to go to my second grief support group meeting, but it was so depressing the first time I went, I decided to go for a drive instead. I'd never been to San Diego, so that's where I headed. Just as I reached Irvine, though, it started raining. My Miata's plastic rear window was messed up, and the rain started coming in the car; I thought, well, I've never been to Irvine, either, and got off at the next exit.

I ended up at a huge mall. I went into a craft store and bought some poofballs and twisty pipe cleaners for my four year old nephew. When I came back out, the sun was shining.

(I should perhaps mention here that I have ADD, so I get lost a lot. I've gotten lost so many times that it no longer bothers me, unless I wind up in a neighborhood with a lot of pawn shops and gun stores.)

Since it was nice out, I decided to explore Irvine. I took one random turn and then another, hoping to happen upon the city's interesting part. But it seemed that each new street was more boring than the last. I finally wound up on a road full of business parks. There was no one else around. That is, except for the cop behind me. He turned his lights on and I pulled over.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?"

"Yes, it's my expired sticker, isn't it. But, I have the paperwork here." I reached into my glove compartment and pulled out a wad of papers. I started going through them, looking for the one saying I had paid my registration and just needed my car to pass smog.

"Do you know where you are?" he asked.

"I have no idea." I laughed. "I was hoping maybe you could help me."

"You are in Irvine."

"Well, I knew that."

"Do you know where Irvine is?"

"I have a vague idea." I was still rifling through my papers.

"Do you know what state you're in?"

"Yes." It suddenly hit me that he wasn't being too friendly.

He cleared his throat, and I looked up.

"You still haven't told me what state you're in."

"California."

"That is correct."

I found the paper and handed it to him. "Could you tell me the way back to the 405?"

"Not so fast. When I pulled you over, it wasn't just because of your expired sticker."

"It wasn't?"

"I saw you coming out of the shopping mall. You kept making turns and you wound up here. Can you explain that?"

"I got lost. I always get lost."

"What did you buy in the mall?"

I opened the bag so that he could see the poofballs and pipe cleaners.

"You came to Irvine to buy that?"

"Well, no. I didn't really come here for any reason."

"You realize, don't you, that your behavior is not normal."

"It is for me."

He looked at my license. "It says you live in Marina Del Rey."

"I just moved there a few months ago."

"Yet, now you are in Irvine. What I want to know is, why would someone who lives in Marina Del Rey come to Irvine...for no reason?"

I shrugged.

"Listen, I want you to recite the alphabet without singing. Do you understand?"

I recited the alphabet.

"Do you realize how fast you recited that? That was not normal. Are you on any medication?"

"I'm on Ritalin."

"OK, I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the car."

He gestured at two short, Asian cops standing a few yards away. "They're in training. Ignore them." It seemed as if nothing better would suit them, as they were both staring at the ground.

He then had me do a series of drunk driving tests. I was wearing heels, which bothered him. He asked me to take them off, but I refused. He insisted, and I kicked them off. After I successfully passed his ballet tests, he shone a flashlight up my nose.

"Did you know you have a deviated septum?"

"No. Because I don't."

"Yes, you do. I'm trained to spot them. Did you know a deviated septum is a sign of cocaine use?"

For those of you who don't know me, the idea of me doing cocaine is ridiculous. I was so angry, my heart was pounding.

"Look," he said. "I specialize in detecting drug addicts, and I'm afraid you fit all the criteria: you don't know where you are...."

"I was joking!"

"You are on Ritalin...."

"I have ADD. I've been on it for years."

"Well, in my experience, people who take Ritalin take it when they can't get cocaine. And, you live in Marina Del Rey. Yet, now you are in Irvine. For no good reason."

"I was just going for a drive. I like driving."

"No one 'just drives' to Irvine."

"Well, I know that now."

"Finally, you have a deviated septum."

"Look, my mom died a month and a half ago and I'm still a bit stressed out. I thought if I went for a drive, it would make me feel better." I despised myself for mentioning it, but I was really starting to worry I'd wind up in the slammer.

The cop studied me for a moment. Then, he said, "I'm sorry, but I know people who have lost a parent. And do you know that not one of them just out of the blue decided to drive to Irvine."

He grabbed my wrist. "I'm going to take your pulse now, if you don't mind." He looked at his watch, then announced, "Your pulse is really, really fast. Dangerously fast."

"That's because I'm really, really annoyed."

"Look, I don't think it's safe for you to drive with that pulse rate. That pulse rate indicates a bad reaction to drugs. It's no use trying to fool me -- I'm trained to recognize people like you. It'd be better if you just told me when you last took the cocaine."

"I have never done cocaine!"

"I see. Well, I'd like to know how you got that deviated septum, then. I am going to have to ask to search your car. Officer Wong and Officer Chen will take down your information."

While he rummaged through my car, I told the trainees my job and contact information. They seemed so uncomfortable with the situation, it made me feel a bit better. (My Chicago friend, Beth, yelled at me later for letting him search my car: 'Don't you know he could have planted something on you?')

After returning empty-handed, he asked, "Has whatever you've taken worn off enough for you to drive safely? I don't want to be responsible for you getting in an accident and killing an innocent person."

Once more, I said I hadn't taken drugs and that my septum was not deviated.

"For your sake, I hope you're telling the truth." Then he let me go.

Later, I asked my friend who is a hospital intern to look at my septum. She said it's not deviated.