I’m writing to you because there is no work to do right now, which is rare and odd and I kind of don’t know what to do with my hands. At work, if there is no work, we have a list of other stuff we could do, stuff I did anyway on top of how busy I was, so now here I am. Workless.
Oh! But listen to this! This is a tragedy. Not as big a tragedy as having ghosts next door. Talk about getting ghosted. Why didn’t I think of that for a title yesterday? Dangit, June.
And you’ve never seen someone look not at a house harder than I did not look at a house last night during Closing of the Blinds over on that side of m’dwelling. I looked away like I was that Bangles chick.
Why did we think that was an appealing thing to do to our hair?
Anyway, my current tragedy. Tragedy du jour.
As you know, because it was in all the papers, I got employee of the month this month. As a reward, you get, well, you can get lots of things but I opted for a restaurant gift card. Hey, hips.
They gave the certificate to me last week at flu shot day, and I was stunned to see it was for $100. I thought it’d be for, like, you know, $35.
It came wrapped in the restaurant’s menu. I got to choose the place and it’s local and I adore it. So the first night I got the thing, I ordered a salad and a pasta dish, because my hips need to be wider. They delivered, a thing my neighbors are talking about. “You sure get a lot of deliveries,” they all say, as if there isn’t a pandemic. Of course I get a lot of deliveries. My cats’ flea meds. Edsel’s heartworm stuff. My hair dye. Groceries. All delivered. I’m not going to a store if I can help it.
The delivery person for my food wrote a note on top of the gift card denoting how much I’d spent that time, which was I think $35. It isn’t a card so much as a piece of paper of heavy stock, maybe a little bigger than a check.
I put that thing in the secretary, not that Mrs. Wiggins lives here.
I am full of the references today.
It’s a desk, full of nooks and crannies, and why do crannies never stand alone? You never say, Oh, be sure to dust in all the crannies. No. It’s always with nooks. They’re always together, like people who have couples Facebook accounts.
Anyway, then I used the card again I think over the weekend. I once again got the Granny’s Gone Nuts salad, which is, you know, salad-y things with blue cheese and green apple and walnuts and salmon. Oh, it’s delicious.
Last night, in case you didn’t notice, was the 14th. I don’t know about you, but that’s the night before my payday. Things are always a little … tight for me on the 14th.
“Oooo! I’ll use my card again!” I said to self, as opposed to “I’ll use my cardigan,” which I have found rarely garners me any food.
I went to town and ordered a different salad (disappointing) (stick with what you know) and a caprese flatbread. At this point, the person answering the phone knows it’s me, because three gift-card orders in one week, you know? I’m hard to forget. So I placed the order and said I’d come get it this time because I try to drive the car at least once a week. #Adventure.
I went to Mrs. Wiggins to get the card.
Oh, I looked. I looked in that secretary like I was its gynecologist. I looked in stupid drawers that in a million years I’d never have put that thing, like my tank top drawer. Yes, I have a tank top drawer like I’m Helen Hunt in that tornado film.
I went outside and dug in the recycling. I looked in the cushions. I even lifted my welcome mat.
The last thing I remember is the food delivery person coming last week, 20 minutes early while I was still out on my walk. There are so rarely cars back here that the car was of note, so I ran home in a panic and sure enough it was the delivery woman.
I recall her handing me the bag and the card all at once. Then? Blank. Like I was roofied via pasta.
GONE! That gift card is gone. I had to call the restaurant back last night to tell them I lost my certificate and tell them my debit card number and thank god it even cleared. It was the 14th, man.
So that’s my tragedy and I’d kvetch further but I just got work to do.