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epitome of incomprehensibility
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The town's artists association has a show this weekend. Members who have artworks in it are asked to volunteer two hours. I was free this afternoon for the set-up, so I said I'd be there 3:30.
But. While rushing to the bus stop, I slipped on a sloped road wet from rain. The ground came up fast against my stop-that hands and I scraped both palms as well as my right knee. My protest at the pavement's audacity came as a shout-shriek.
Doreen my diagonal neighbour: "Are you okay? You should be more careful!"
My grumpy mind: is that helpful right now? My mouth: "Yes, sorry!" (Sorry?! I AM a stereotype.)
I was getting up. A van of a blather-burgundy colour approached. I scrambled to the side of the road. The car stopped. Why? I wasn't in its way anymore. I could walk; I didn't need help. I looked at it, confused.
And then I saw that the umbrella I'd dropped had rolled into the exact middle of the road. Oops. I hurried it away with sorries the driver couldn't hear and returned to bandage my wounds.
...
Dad, driving me there, said not to apologize, he knew this was an accident, but in general he wanted more time to work on his Psalms translations. Since he'd retired and didn't have a lot of fixed-schedule things, it made sense that people asked him to drive them places, but...
My writer self understood, but I gave him some half-joking attitude. If I said this thing in an L.M. Montgomery book, I might be described as saying it "archly": "Okay, so you'll pay for part of my driving lessons?"
Thus spake the Presbyterian Ayatollah to The Smartass with the Smarting Hand: "I don't have money. Not with the renovations."
Anyway, the context was that Dad was anxious for time. And the actual nickname he had at the college was "the Presbyterian Rabbi" because of teaching Hebrew but my teenage self decided Ayatollahs were stricter, because of Iran and a retrospectively frightening culture of casual Islamophobia in post-9/11 Cedar_Christian_Academy, for instance. Years later I had a well-read and brilliant student, a Muslim, who was raised in an atmosphere of mild strictness that struck me as very familiar - very Cedar Christian-like, though I imagine it was warmer in Libya. But still. Comparable issues, not exotic evils.
Anyway, the cat. Dad stopped at the community centre entrance and I was getting out of the car when I saw a lounging shape on the sidewalk that made me pause. "Oh cute, a cat." And then, "OH! That's the cat someone posted about in the Dorval Facebook group! The one who got his own library card!!"
And I opened the door wider to show Dad. Dad's face was all just-get-on-with-it, let-me-leave, but the round-faced feline really did have a tiny "library card" attached to his collar - that was how I recognized him - he belonged to a home near the library and kept slipping in, which was why the staff gave him the honorary card - and I was so awed at the coincidence of seeing him online yesterday and in person today that I was convinced Dad should be excited too.
Also the cat is very cute.
But when I opened the door wider, the creature jumped into the car. Dad: what now?? Me: "Oh no, sorry."
Dad tried shooing him out - gentle like he is with Shiloh, but decisive.
The cat - also decisive. He hopped onto the back seat.
I opened the door. Now I remembered his name from the post. "Muffins. Come here, Muffins."
I reached to pick him up; he was reportedly friendly. And, with friendly grace, he evaded my grasp and slipped back into the front passenger seat.
Now Dad was calling him by name. "Muffins. Come on, Muffins. Time to go."
It took a couple more tries, but he finally got out. Dad closed the door, driving Sparky (the car) away.
I patted Muffins on the head. He was amenable to that. His greenish eyes asked if I'd be amen-able to letting him through into the art show. My bluish-grey ones replied, "No, you are adorable, but I am not letting you through another door today."
Wistful was his look as I went indoors.
...
All in all, I was twenty minutes late, too late to help with food prep, though I'd brought gloves to put over my bandaged hands for that purpose. Estelle: "Oh, poor you."
Me: "C'est pas grave."
ART SHOW RULE: EVERYONE MUST SPEAK IN THEIR 2ND LANGUAGE AT ALL TIMES.
No. But I was mildly useful in hanging paintings up. AndI hope I get to see Muffins again!
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