that.”
She gathered herself up to her full height and waved her fist in the air. “We will never have a bone in our tuna fish again, not if it’s up to me. ” She said this as if she were a political candidate giving a stump speech promising reforms in education, taxes, and gun control. “I am appalled—absolutely incensed—that a reputable company like Fin’s Premium Tuna could be so lax in their quality control that they’d allow this to happen. Get me some Scotch tape, Stacey.”
Okay, I wasn’t exactly pleased to find a bone in the food I was about to eat, but Scotch tape wasn’t the first thing I thought of as a solution. “Why do you want the tape?”
“Just get it, dear.”
I found the tape and brought it to her. By this time, she had separated the bone from the tuna fish, rinsed it off in the sink, and dried it with a paper towel. “What are you planning to do with it?” I said. “Have it made into a necklace?”
“No, Miss Fresh Mouth. I’m going to tape it to my stationery—as evidence—and then I’m going to write Fin’s one of my complaint letters, demanding an apology for nearly killing us. They’ll be sorry they ever dealt with Helen Reiser, I guarantee you.”
My mother picked through the rest of the tuna, to make sure it was safe for us, then added some mayo and a little seasoning to the bowl, and threw a couple of sandwiches together. While we ate, she continued to rant about our near-fatal accident.
“In the blink of an eye, our lives could have been taken from us,” she stewed.
What neither of us realized—how could we?—was that in the blink of an eye, our lives would be taken from us. Our lives as we knew them, that is.
s even
“ M iss! Uh, miss! ”
It was my third week of employment at Cornucopia!, and it was a wonder I was still showing up at the joint, given how insistent—okay, obnoxious—the customers were.
“Miss! Hel- lo !”
As an example, why was this person yelling at me when I was clearly working at the computer, ringing up a sale for my previous customer—a customer who had just bought a four-hundred-dollar picture frame, imported from Scotland and handpainted with colorful golf balls on it? The frame, by the way, was a gift for her husband’s fifty-first birthday. Oh, and she was, at most, twenty-five. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
“Miss! What are you, deaf?”
I wheeled around to face the woman who was banging on the counter, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I was busy. She was a blonde wearing a black leather bomber jacket and carrying a canvas tote that read “Breathe deeply and let it go.”
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” I told her. “I’m finishing up with another customer.”
“But I’m in a major hurry,” she said. “I’m double-parked and my kids are in the car and I have to buy a birthday present for my daughter’s friend Lily. I need an outfit for the girl. And I need it, like, right away. ”
Wow. A fashion emergency, I thought, wondering why it doesn’t track with some people that they’re not the center of the universe. “Just give me a few seconds and I’ll be glad to help you,” I said.
The woman huffed but stayed put until I finished my transaction.
“Now,” I said as I walked her over to Cornucopia!’s children’s department. “How old is your daughter’s friend Lily?”
“Six.”
“Okay. What about this dress?” I took a pretty silk frock off the display. “It’s from France and it’s adorable, don’t you think?” It should be. It cost more than any of my dresses.
“No. Too girly.”
“Isn’t Lily a girl?”
“Yeah, but I’m looking for something hot, something hip, something that says to me ‘trendy designer.’ How about the one over there?”
She pointed to an outfit that was more of a costume than an appropriate article of clothing for a child. It was a leopard-skin jumpsuit with a black leather belt, and what it said to me
She gathered herself up to her full height and waved her fist in the air. “We will never have a bone in our tuna fish again, not if it’s up to me. ” She said this as if she were a political candidate giving a stump speech promising reforms in education, taxes, and gun control. “I am appalled—absolutely incensed—that a reputable company like Fin’s Premium Tuna could be so lax in their quality control that they’d allow this to happen. Get me some Scotch tape, Stacey.”
Okay, I wasn’t exactly pleased to find a bone in the food I was about to eat, but Scotch tape wasn’t the first thing I thought of as a solution. “Why do you want the tape?”
“Just get it, dear.”
I found the tape and brought it to her. By this time, she had separated the bone from the tuna fish, rinsed it off in the sink, and dried it with a paper towel. “What are you planning to do with it?” I said. “Have it made into a necklace?”
“No, Miss Fresh Mouth. I’m going to tape it to my stationery—as evidence—and then I’m going to write Fin’s one of my complaint letters, demanding an apology for nearly killing us. They’ll be sorry they ever dealt with Helen Reiser, I guarantee you.”
My mother picked through the rest of the tuna, to make sure it was safe for us, then added some mayo and a little seasoning to the bowl, and threw a couple of sandwiches together. While we ate, she continued to rant about our near-fatal accident.
“In the blink of an eye, our lives could have been taken from us,” she stewed.
What neither of us realized—how could we?—was that in the blink of an eye, our lives would be taken from us. Our lives as we knew them, that is.
s even
“ M iss! Uh, miss! ”
It was my third week of employment at Cornucopia!, and it was a wonder I was still showing up at the joint, given how insistent—okay, obnoxious—the customers were.
“Miss! Hel- lo !”
As an example, why was this person yelling at me when I was clearly working at the computer, ringing up a sale for my previous customer—a customer who had just bought a four-hundred-dollar picture frame, imported from Scotland and handpainted with colorful golf balls on it? The frame, by the way, was a gift for her husband’s fifty-first birthday. Oh, and she was, at most, twenty-five. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
“Miss! What are you, deaf?”
I wheeled around to face the woman who was banging on the counter, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I was busy. She was a blonde wearing a black leather bomber jacket and carrying a canvas tote that read “Breathe deeply and let it go.”
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” I told her. “I’m finishing up with another customer.”
“But I’m in a major hurry,” she said. “I’m double-parked and my kids are in the car and I have to buy a birthday present for my daughter’s friend Lily. I need an outfit for the girl. And I need it, like, right away. ”
Wow. A fashion emergency, I thought, wondering why it doesn’t track with some people that they’re not the center of the universe. “Just give me a few seconds and I’ll be glad to help you,” I said.
The woman huffed but stayed put until I finished my transaction.
“Now,” I said as I walked her over to Cornucopia!’s children’s department. “How old is your daughter’s friend Lily?”
“Six.”
“Okay. What about this dress?” I took a pretty silk frock off the display. “It’s from France and it’s adorable, don’t you think?” It should be. It cost more than any of my dresses.
“No. Too girly.”
“Isn’t Lily a girl?”
“Yeah, but I’m looking for something hot, something hip, something that says to me ‘trendy designer.’ How about the one over there?”
She pointed to an outfit that was more of a costume than an appropriate article of clothing for a child. It was a leopard-skin jumpsuit with a black leather belt, and what it said to me
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